Deeper Shadows

Her eyes speak of shadows:

ice shadows

somewhere in the heart --

darkened, suppressed images

like old black & whites

put to flame,

curling back upon themselves,

churning black

before open eyes

-- forever lost

in no time at all.

A few surviving embers

cling like spiders

somewhere:

faint, thin, starving

silhouettes,

in frozen wait

for the lightning bolts

and knights in shining armor --

for the girls in garlands

and chomping

white stallions --

faint, thin, starving

silhouettes,

placed on the center piece

for gods who will not come.

If I were a god

(or even a man),

I would take a crimson moon

and sail it like a discus

across this night.

I would hold her by the hand

and cast reflections

to stall the shadows,

and let loose the hidden light.