I touch the face on the River.
How lovely it looks, in its vanity and might.
Suddenly, it disappears-
Mud, reality and cold
Send shivers down the spine.
'How weak of one to fall for illusions'-
The puritan erases the complacent belief
throwing the stone at her
then gasps over the ruined portrait.
I adore it, it dies.
I hate it, it dies.
It dies and I'm left
Still weak, just more afraid.
Perhaps I'm just finding ways
To drown my mind,
Just so it has a chance at exhausting
All the wrong ones, before finding the one.
For wouldn't it be a worse tragedy,
To find the right key
Then losing it again in the labyrinthine bunch?
But oh well,
I kill one devil,
Two appear.
What happens if time steals the chest
Before I open it up?
Or if I have so many fears to birth and kill,
That my strength kills herself first?
YOU ARE READING
Cottage Chronicles
PoetryLife's chronicles from love, sorrow, anger, guilt, shame, happiness buried in a poetic cipher. Would you like some words and wine, on wooden floorboards? ©️ Feronia Grey
