I spoke to a looking glass
hoping for some new vision
to explode uncontrollably
glorious visit from a mentor
music coming out of me.
But today...
I don't feel one thing.
No secret friends
just a few pictures
fantasy art of exotic women
female form photography
online
waiting to be the next fantasy fairy.
Mirror placed close to my face
I had to look away
twas a pitiful display
of feeling just about nothing.
My eyes that once burned with tears
craving the lust of beautiful drawings
left a pitiful trail of ice.
I had to hope
that no one would catch me
days of no colors at all
breathless exotic fairies.
I had a chance to build a trail
along a line of light
the moon had gone chasing
a room of stars in flight
and all the while the sun stopped shining
in honor of those inner photographs
that held up banners
for my pathetic prayers
to no one
just the tune of the night.
Words for a wounded soldier
came to mind
and so
I put those containers of stars
away.
Sacrifice your name
for honor
line the box with old songs
and all the angels could say was
hate is a very consuming blanket.
Yet its easy to package
and travels well
on instinct.
And thus the rhythm of sainthood
took pause
a conscience
or just a quirk
a stupid list of rules
in a confessions absence.
Is it possible that the angel did not see
the weariness in my eye
before I fell?
Didn't see the door open
or courage
that once inspected closely
had melted?
Is it possible that she missed
her own open wounds
female forms photographed
unguarded erotic pleasures
displaying mine
instead?
And from that space
simple flower fairies race toward
things they might not understand
exotic potential
spun glass figurines
tiny statues of grace
acting out directions.
Despite the
emptiness that others do profess
once inspected
the freedom of it
is glaring.
Pausing
reflecting
I say back to me
who and where and why
are still useful tools
to knock on doorways
and celebrate their rebellion.
The fantasy art
of this professed exotic woman
still intact
she's just waiting for another moon.
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