ghostly light of a winter sunset

emaciated, mute,

frozen lake is a labyrinth of patterns -

broken mirror trying in vain

to reverse the entropy

and make itself whole again -

grey memories, secrets we couldn’t keep,

trespassings and sinful acts,

pieces of broken wings

glued together with lies and waiting.

this was not how love

was supposed to end

do not cry little girl do not leave your chair do not let

your feet touch this earth does not want you the wind

will not carry your whispers and this

moment may be the brightest of your 

little life of struggle and pain;

don’t trust the man with the machine

standing there in front of you

he is no photographer

he is no other than your dark future

staring at you

through the keyhole of the door

that will forever remain closed; 

his eyes are black thorns, 

he is the collector of lost souls;

in his world you’re not welcome.

what was lost is now being retrieved 

from the folds of the heavy stage curtain -

in dreams and in sand storms everything is possible;

we all have ghosts - they cling to us like shadows

under the black winter sun.

the body suffers whatever hell the mind spins -

it often burns to ashes.

don’t blame us, mother night:

we’re only trying to stay in the limelight 

and do our best to not forget our lines - 

this is how we resist becoming dust.