It is the soul
of the souless
condition...
John Desmond
Bernal
She is dead in a dead building in the dead of night.
The word becomes triple distilled extracting
the essence of ghost, ruin and stillness.
In the corner, a moth clings to a cobweb.
Its wings translucent and veined in green
like the scarf she wore earlier -- protesting.
The streets were old brick -- strewn with lilac leaves
and people marching in the cool light of Spring, The sun's
flicker
serving as their candle. Somewhere else, a brass valve
turned on
releasing a shot of air that erupted in flames. Something was
flung
into an antique warehouse
-- gutted and muraled with graffiti.
No broken glass but fragments
of porcelain-pale bone. Later, she awoke here. Her shadow
molted
as she watched the lace
wing shimmer
in fragility like the silken cloth -- she bought but
couldn't afford.
Low wages led to this --
crossing over from a single word
to another kind of holy trinity.
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