The Light Phantasmagoric

Desolate,

done fiercely mourning,

the room within caves with a sigh -

If there was a child there, raw knees, white muscle,

did you see him?

If there was a virgin match

to bathe him there,

why did you douse the oil and dim the lights?

That then was my seed to crush,

and my crime to bear the sprouting thing unburied,

i spooned it poison in the womb

and pruned its reaching willows from the water

my halcyon its brief decay.

None spilled grief to see you go,

instead spell struck by your rising bone and blue,

heartened by the spectacle of cyclical brutality,

had they seen the empty catacomb, would they

setting sparklers of pain about your borrowed skin

light this last for you?

Especially when the soft gave way,

i , as a thing carved for the mantle

stood frosted still and torn of flesh

And the sawdust paved the way ahead

the carpet now burns wetly,

whistling a hissing drift across that stale atmosphere.

Because you,

shadow boxing with your gaudy spectors,

Tripping the light fantastic across this crumbling carousel

a frozen page of prayers in hand,

Put the petal to the wick,

And the candle to your mouth

And begged those questions no more.