No Shadows in The Last Station

I write in hints of shadows where
The passion cowers, peeking out,
A child amongst the grown-up legs.
The suicide is not on stage,
The ardor of ten thousand days,
The flesh that presses softer flesh,
The dagger drawn to rip and tear,
The arguments with rending clothes,
Invisible for all to see.
And what is left between the words?
Just paper, white, untouched, unmarred.
The conjuror will cast his spell
To find the only one he’s fooled
Looks back at him within the glass.

This entry was posted on April 11, 2010 at 1:35 am and is filed under Blank Verse, Iambic Tetrameter. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site.

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