Spin between her fingers,
The black robed incarnation
Of euphemistically balanced existence.
She walked the lines,
The morning dew of incomplete resolution,
Convulsing the fevers of disingenuous ambitions,
Walking between tryst and falseprophets.
Her words were wind,
Caressing lovers to distance shores
Where anticipation longed for more
Than ephialtes and by-gone streams.
Becomes the drowning superstition
Of fates that barely cross,
Nothing lasts forever.
Her idioms taste of purgatory,
The place she calls to for her soul,
Where phantasms and pretence take hold
Of each bête noire.
Anathema of distrust,
Offering nothing, but inconsistent execrate
And words that mean less
Than the darkness she professes in heart.
Each counterfeit emotion
Lost in feigned engagements
And broken meetings,
I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away.*
* Emily Dickinson – I heard a Fly buzz – when I died
Poem © Phen Weston 2015