The shadows are not my own,
Mirpeople like sirens move
In and out of view,
Their ample hair and blood red lips
Are strewn with quicksilver dew,
As they gather, fast and hard
And scatter away from the heels
Of reality which comes in white coat and
Pretentious smile of condescension,
Only to come back, doubled in strength
And grotesque shape of lost monsters
Of the romantic mind, locked
In a tower where no key would turn again.
