~

From an old, old tale
comes something unheard of
touching on mist and light
and the æther of recognizing
the familiar amidst the peculiar.

She wants to give it wings,
or a gesture of intent,
but it slips out of her grasp —
too much its own substance to
try to conform to hers.
And she wouldn’t really want it to.

She wants to find her place
along its edges.
But its edges refuse to be defined
as is the gilded way of the shadow.

Bright lucidity showing up
in the dark hours before dawn
when there is only silence
and sometimes
the old beat
of loose, distant drums.

Her eyes are round, unblinking
doll’s eyes,
burning from lack of sleep
and the ache of entropic design.
Her bones are drying
in the hours
before thought can bring her back to life.

She needs the salt of the sea
but all she can sense is the frame of her
own shadow, lucid still,
and uttering
not a single whisper.

Breath is a memory.

Hinted lulls in the crust
of air,
of life,
cool on her palate now
as she stands at the shores of great seas —
undiscovered beings churning beneath,
wild in their own underpinnings.

But she finds there is nothing she can
hold onto, like the shadow
that should trail her
but instead,
refuses to blend
into her new darkness.

And it beguiles her gently
into the place it once held,
throwing her into the mutable debris
of shadows and darkness
while it cultivates
its own
idea
of being,
of eradication,
of light.