Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Pseudologia Fantastica

With mirrors

summoned from

A childhood priest,

Fata Morgana

sweeps a rusty Midas

high and away

in the cold-hearted

dry autumn air.

Calcine flames

wildfire

over Incubus' air castles

Ere tornados blast their

cinders to the cheerless heavens.

Algonquin's frosty smile.

Dreaming of her king's

resplendent touch

Her inexorably

treasured taste

of gold.

I am the charred remains.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.