Psyche's Scripts

                                        

          
"Vapor is my tongue," I say, you nod your furrowed brow-
An impression of mine own soul which is sighing now-
I cup my breast and hear no drum. My silver string untied-
No bond, no link, "No ship to sink!" my mislead voice did cry-
My tepid fingers scour the air in search of friend or dear-
Your tarnished lips do roar my name, beckoning me near-
"No creature born from clay or loam would think of your meek flesh"-
Mine eyes did burn with salty vice that ran unseen and fresh-
With veil and cloak I left the hall, afraid they'd spot my lips-
And hear my words or see me speak, revealing psyche's scripts-
"I'm mist, I'm light, I'm empty space where impassioned soles don't tread" -
A flame now blown with smoke for hair and ashes for my bed-
I tug my skin and rap my bones; I am a being true-
Sculpted by a greater face and painted then with blue-
If my palms do ache to hold and my heart to beat-
Why is all I've ever known, starless skies deplete?-
I feel no breath, no warmth of skin on my neck or cheek-
No secrets to be shared. No treasure here to seek-
I look, the glassy amber rings are glazed and sparkling still-
And into them I see a valley, begging to be filled-
"Lonesome is my name," I say, you answer quick as light,-
"Dark is where you'll always stay, the fatal, final night."

M.