after Mathew Daniel
In this journey the devil wears mascara in the small hours,
you pledge allegiance to her who talks with a scintilla
on riddles about you wrapped in intricate enigmas
and also lies of your non existent chimera,
a mirage in the sand on a pilgrimage of the spirit.
In the morning before your bus leaves
she asks if her tears can make an ocean,
to drown herself in one quicksilver dream,
to forget of her son : a will-o’-the-wisp that disappeared in a flick
but you tell of limericks from bards you have heard on your way,
on nebulous concepts for healing disguised as rumours.
And when you are long gone
they retell in small whispers
of a lone man who speaks the language of the gods,
and showed a possible metamorphosis;
if he ever shows up again they will thank him
by rejecting his coin....
Comments