In a hologram illusion where the light distracts the viewer and the evening stars seemed duller when your eyes had finished feasting on the shallow beads of breath that dripped from bleeding sacrifices, and the pantograph had copied, replicated perfect clones of you, you felt the morning shatter in a hundred flakes of sunbeam and you knew that all you’d ever known had gone.
The images kept running through the breaking hearts of suitors and the girls who wore pink lipstick threw their high heels in the fountains and the
holy men who watched them from atop tall lonely pine trees, prayed salvation for the masses, playing fiddles ’til the holograms were gone.
In the middle of the middle eye, a cyclops sees what we cannot, he looks into the sacrificial lambs led to the slaughter and the daughter that he never knew stands there with laughter on her lips,
time slips that way.
What we never know is when we go where do we go to after, does the daughter with the laughter ringing bells somewhere in heaven have the answer that we’re seeking, does the wild cat mind when travelling alone?
But it’s always somewhere far too soon and always under a blue moon,when promises are broken by the bending of the river that runs swiftly through the veins of life to splash out on a sidewalk and a hundred flakes of sunbeam never seems enough to wake me,
I must be gone.
© 2015, John Smallshaw.