Nine Lives
Nine lives in nine stones.
I put a spell on you.
History doesn’t repeat unless it rhymes.
A manuscript forgery evaporates in rhyme. Edges evaporate.
Count the scratch marks.
You sift metallic ink. The edges of stone, wood and glass evaporate.
Within the inner chambers, draped within unfolded cotton,
stone, wood and glass forms vibrate, casting shadows.
Beneath a flowering tree, outside the asylum, I wait for the last train.
You read my mind in your depths.
You chanted a truth enchanting. You vanished like a flower.
History evaporates reality.
I check the schedule beneath a flowering tree.
Northern Lights slip low, cascading, casting effusive spells.
poemimage 