The House of Mirrors
See how she bends, limbs slight and firm
a whirlwind twirl, a doe-like leap
that cherubbim visage, framed in gold,
all
that I
shall never
be.
This winsome flight, perfection laced
with wind chime tones and dawns first light
igniting passions long thought lost
within
the
darkest depths
of me.
And on we dance, her arms, my mind
our spirits now so intertwined
into that realm of sapphire stars
reserved
for
Gods and ghosts
and we.
kdarcy commented on The House of Mirrors
12-12-2010
Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion.
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.
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