Within a colorful room lit by hope,
the reflection of sun’s glare
proves too much for the naked eye.
This present brilliance defies forward gaze
while a backstage wall resides
as blinders barring the peripheral.
Such conditions might seem obstructive,
yet wispy strips of pale blue crown
the olive-robed entity with quiet honor.
Her spirit shimmers in defense
as she wards off a hazardous threat;
the gnashing steel teeth of the machine.
Spinning slowly, the monster is tamed
as she calms him with her patience,
tenderly stroking his whirlwind of a spine.
The floor is red lava, frozen cold by
the frigid footsteps of so many visitors;
a facial surface pocked with time.
The door to the passage of sky looming above
lies prone, preventing alternate dimensions
from adorning our humble tables.
And a solitary phantom of green leafy life
garnishes this industrial stage
with vibrantly unabashed affection.
Jennifer Burnside
No comments:
Post a Comment