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leaning over backward
It’s time for fun. The crazy, prodding billiard.
You pocket two white balls. The tune in the baroque.
One’s merit is a wish to sell one’s snowy horror
in twisted mind on high, bereft of last repose.
No music, no repose, no god, no inspiration.
A strange somebody’s imp falls through the Internet.
The snowstorm-fallen trees show us the three-dimensional
undying Masquerade, life-born imagery.
In mirrored circle time stands still as dark and splendid
and dreamlike Bal Masque. Bright masks of moments dance
throughout times and lands. Reflecting in the mirrors.
And disappear all. The Ball is endless though.
New personages act the endless play of pleasure,
dependent on a warmth, dependent on a love--
if we have neither, we depend on other, darker,
more dangerous, alas, and more destructive things.
Red lips conceal the fangs. We all depend on others,
and on the quirky twist of our own dreams.
The slavery of dreams. O brother, darling, where…
where on earth are you?
Perchance in mirrors. No.
