Rush of Wind

Muse morph to appear as whomever the viewer

Wishes to see, stare back silently offering a door key

To a portal that does not exist

Just a phantom room with ersatz shelves

With souvenirs of the occupant’s desires

For that moment rented like a hotel bedroom

To be what a tourist thinks a town is

The colors glittering and no one grips

The skin on the bone shaking in the midnight’s cold

The aromas of illusion are like an opium den

Blasted away and talking to an end

That everyone likes to hear his or her own voice

Except for her dancing around questions and burns

The sting of air, the creep of concern numb in a closet

Dodging the entomologist’s pins to the butterfly’s wings

Flapping in blue, black, and, blonde underneath

Keep the dagger within its sheath

Stab him a thousand stings with the silence

To make a man believe God was still alive

The path had purpose and a mutual hope was in her eyes

He laughs away the mistake like an atheist still awake

The collar to the hound werewolf breaking shackles unbound

Rage and love bloody in the hunt for teeth to tear through the dove

Selfish creature playing games with hearts barely alive

Rather never had a word than be listened to for weeks

Found the house ransacked in the breech

Let it be, let it be, let it be

Wild and wrapped like a Persephone gone in winter’s tap

Without explanation beyond a pittance 

Just wanted to understand so that the memories did not become exhibits

Of lies half-made and tries at what poor men dream

She made him feel alive like a warm rush of wind

Now all he feels is a deflated absence

Wishing for ignorance of want to ever feel that way again