Guinever

1
the unsettled instances of dominion
stretch across the aeons like flayed corpses
displayed for the edification of a carnival crowd...
massive endeavours of consistency over chaos
where little is apparent but twisted machinations,
waxed irrelevant over time.

    imagine yourself without the burden
    of shunted hopes or feathered, fluttering dreams : 
        walking on vinyl -
        extending horizons, evading constructions
        worser and worser as the mind's bled dry,
        expanding into chaos with the inner eye,
        chrysalis on chrysanthemum open to the sky.
            ( unlock pandora's box...
            close a hand into a fist...
            catch yourself a falling star -
            watch it quickly turn to mist. )
     word associations disappear.
     in a quest for reason, futility persists -
     creating excalibur from a mess of rotting eggshells.

if this is your legacy, what will be mine?
the shallow unmarked grave
where your henchmen will bury my bones
when stray dogs have done their gnawing?
 

2
silence then.
there is a definite misdirection here -
a lure unavoidable and unstable enough to challenge inertial truths.
after all, persistence and prescience become viable bedfellows
once the sword is drawn and lies between them, naked ...
can there be no resolution ?
unimaginable intrusions suffered for the sake of consistency perhaps ?
or perversity...?

you smile.
is the jest so absurd ?
the teaser so lacking in subtlety and wit
that the players anticipate the quip,
snickering in the sidelines ?
no sign of bated breath hovering just beyond the lips
in an agony of exultation ?
or exculpation ?
you would condemn me to obliivon?
 
a single step - and no sun shines...
no ghost to loiter in the void between staircases or rat-races,
no icons of forgiveness to dampen the lasciviousness of our dreams
with a well-fashioned omniscient eye.