Prophecy / Antristrophe

She speaks, sudden —
thought, she
echoes through her space,
A Prophesy:

She holds, like tides of
ice, brief, it
comes,
Memory:
    A gown of bronze,
    Empire-line, split
    down one elegant leg,
    supple skin leads to
    leather, crisscrossed ankles,
     pointed toes.
    A fastening, midst her breasts,
    silver and green.
    Her watcher
    a suit, black, and smart,
    shirt of subtle stripes,
    and tie a red that matches nought
    but the sunlight in her hair.
It’s enough.

He speaks, sudden —
thought, she
echoes through his space…

He holds, like tides of
ice, brief, it
comes,
Memory:
    Receiver, Question:
    “All ok?” And halts,
    falters, one breaking moment.
    Minute, interfering crackles.
    Pauses, holds, waits… speaks.
     The End.
    She lies on sombre pillow,
    tears pinning hairs of love/beloved
    with a sense of resolution.
    She changes the pillowslip.
It’s enough.
He folds, weeks past,
would scream, but for dignity.
Each tear once pent inside tries
expression.
It kills him.

They hold, like tides of
ice, brief. It
goes:
Antistrophe.

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One Response to “Prophecy / Antristrophe”

  1. Kirra Says:

    Every time I miss you, I read this.
    And I remember what I was doing the afternoon you wrote it.
    And I wonder.

    Remember when we were friends?

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