Miss Fortune and Her Handmaids

In what love we forge oftener without words
we waste on songs so long attributed
to sleep misplaced, while kings are garments
of our mingled imagination, instruments
unto music we apocalypsed in utero.
This inflames such agile nostaglia
with strides like Icarus imagining weightless,
that we lose all feeling in extremities.
We, rocks in our pockets, sink not softly
but like bodies collapsing into open graves
while the dirge is sung mournful in our memory.

How much like are we to myths, unknown
to us? But vague remembrance, childhood
strung on macaroni bracelets, meets
halfway the weight forgotten days and
more before we had a chance to reconcile
our vergent selves. Lost, we find, are loves,
but still live endings sweeping up
the monochrome credits epitaphed to, often,
us. Clearly, things exist in outer chambers
and rooms less used that make our nocturne
notions swivel on simple feet. More than we
admit, the way the sun mornings thieves
our confidence and not till night resumes
command do we untuck our buried voices.

Dust varies happenstance like dawn descending
softly through our shadow, umbral image of id
platonic with our fortunes in variables
uncontrived and whispered to an ear awaiting
cold breath. So, with softly sounds, our energies move
maybe like misgivings, maybe like midweek dreams,
down from up the under side of sadness,
still reminiscent of our late lady self
and all her cunning wiles. The prostituting
inner parts allure our good nature backstair
and subtle till we can only mouth it
weakly as we exhale, the one word which matters:

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