1 min
I am soliciting compliments
from the bone china
scattered around me in the moonlight—
a fragile and brittle nocturnal waif
influenced by the silver glow
of a full moon.
abandoned at a dinner table
—al fresco—
I am left with prayers and questions
which whisper out of my cracked throat,
staining the air with barely audible sobs
that are cruelly scorned by the sugar cubes
so arrogantly cheerful and sparkling
in the night light.
and now I am chasing shadows
through dark hedges—
they shapeshift and vanish
from between my clutching fingers
like the fluttering ghosts of bats
or discarded memories.
this cloak of trancelike illumination
is an opiate to my soul
causing hallucinations I desire to stir away,
like sugar dissolving in hot tea—
but I have lost my silver teaspoon
and I cannot find it
in the long grass beneath me.