Trial and Trail of a Pretender

The trial and trail seemed purposeful yet, his feet walked mindlessly along

while he dwelt upon the detours of all his good intentions.

 

For the toils of beauty are not equal nor just -

 

It is a vindictive enemy -

the more you resist the more insistent it becomes - demanding full fare for your life

and this, for many is not as much of a question - as it is a promise to some destiny at the next stop.

 

He became less his ideas and more the ambitions reflected by his place, his status, his money,

his friends, his haughty collections but mostly, he was a myriad of all his doubts and insecurities.

And, in the end, even the mirror could not recognize him.

 

That gifted box sitting in the closet -

contains all the compliments, real and perceived, he once numbered.

And the box wrappings with all the blossomy ribbons?

Those are the self-denials to himself as the best possible ornament. 

A Fire in Tercet

Virgil’s question, “What fears - thee

When the garden is in plea

For a bee to rest upon thy breast?”

 

I dread the beast’s silent quest

And too; when words will not rest

To fill upon a line nor form into a page.

 

Virgil’s question, “Is this a poet sage

Or a fanciful lunatic in a rage

Waiting for flowers to blossom?”

 

Neither winsome face made handsome

Or plain; shall keep sins hidden behind loathsome.

Waiting to wait - a loud adore; or the quiet abhor!

 

Virgil’s question, “Is the door on fire

With flames that create an empire;

Or is it merely a pyre – laid deep with fears?”  

  

Castings at the Fringe

If you were there at the place

where the moon sits

And if I were here at the edges of its beams,

crossing distances of time and space,

would we be casted in shadow splits;

Together as one at the fringes of existence?

(photo by Johnna Calvillo)