Casey Gilfillan

In the room of frames are eyes that stare back.
They are jostled by step; the swift
Swing of movement inspires the
Resolution of hand to skin through
Pin-pointed placement, guided by the flesh.

It ends under the omniscient glaze, the
Red and stark blue that glisten against the
Steep grandeur of the sky resting before us.
The unspeakable walls do not console,
They redact form, bleed bleach on the core.

How I wish I had the grip of courage
To fight back against the torrent of myth.
I steer the welling gush of fear to
The floor, unwilling to unleash myself
To the tall, drifting figure of your wake.

You must watch as it wallows in the
Fatigue of torment, lingering without name
And merely by the puppetry of your shame.
You will feel your hands reach out; you are
Yearning for a place that is no longer there.

Longing is met with an emptiness, only
The desireless scourge of reflection.
In my dreams, I track the prints to your door
And arrive by vessel, wistful.
I nightmare of being torn from the flame.

I reach out once more, eager for the final
Drop. The venom of wait is deep within,
Pursuant of the last remaining bits.
There is not much left for parting,
Just brittle bone and a heart of glass.

Conveying the intimacy that faltered,
The floor rumbles beneath me and I know
It can no longer bear the burden.
What was good then would now surely
Call upon those cloud-forming hands.