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I am
or Self Portrait as Halo
I am.
I am the dim seclusion of the first floor
wreathed in mists and mysteries,
and in the flashing lights where dancers writhe
and twist in passion's hurricane.
My features those of every face
wiped of identity by the pulse of ecstatic dance.
My eyes the blacked out windows, no light
can enter, no secrets escape me.
I am the contrast
of brilliant poisons and bubbling ambrosia within
their crystal cauldrons, and the murmur
of conversation rises and falls,
my heartbeat. I whisper
like distant stars, ancient knowledge
in lovers' ears. In dark corners,
skulking on their patent leather stilts,
they wait, silent as tomorrow.
They do not know me,
like East and West we march in parallel.
They do not see me,
for jaded eyes blind sight engulfs the beauty.
They do not want me,
my dawn drives out their witching hour.
They do not love me,
but fly too high to hear my heart.
I know them, I see them, I want them, I love them.
I don't understand why they paint over themselves,
seeking to create a Mona Lisa by burying the one within.
I don't understand the language of bumps and brushes
they speak with alien grace.
I don't admire their glowing scraps,
cloth that masquerades as clothing.
I don't desire their flesh, though they glisten
with salt like Venus from the sea.
I understand the fears in their eyes, those flitting shadows
they try to hide by burning all the brighter.
I understand their silence, for words can shatter
the crystal towers that shelter their dreams.
I admire their smiles, those glimpses
of heaven, too quickly drawn away.
I desire their hearts like glistening silver
charms for a bracelet.
They do not know themselves,
too close to see the picture in the dots.
They do not see themselves,
to driven by the eyes around them.
They do not want themselves,
shedding skins like angel's tears.
They do not love themselves,
for flowers have left the thorns behind.
I know, I see, I want, I love.
I am.
By Marguerite Fleur
 Naree · Wed Apr 20, 2005 @ 03:10am · 0 Comments |
