Masquerade

 

I

Staring a half-hearted wonder of who you really

are into a crackle and glow of home comforts,

I swill serene glass of Margaux round and round

in hand that writes and re-writes reminiscence.

 

Commuting through those sullied Surrey suburbs,

did the severity of your suit cut a sharp intake of

my breath as I pushed through the hollow crowd?

Poetry flames in devotion, an awakening in motion.

 

Far away, but recklessly closer than you think,

you slowly shut your MacBook down in disquietude.

Restlessly twisting vexed metal round and round

on hand that has reached out to any port in a storm.

 

Paroxysm of ravening strikes at being lost within loss,

eternally searching  for your own fire nymph of fervour.

Body ages with resigned alacrity and mind unkempt,

a lonely clandestine, mixing glitter with fool’s gold.

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.*

 

 

II

Our host never lets guise slide as he enters

the ballroom, face familiar but unknown,

creating mystery with grammar school tones.

An iridescent blend of anxiety and cunning

He tastes debauchery with decaying eyes,

every flavour of colour through a screen of lies .

Host of followers delightfully exposed

on account of his whims, letting masks fall

dancing hither and thither, beautiful curves

weave and smile, they come – and they go,

but what he really craves for is a beautiful soul.

To keep him alight as years ember and cajole.

 

Clock strikes darkest hour before dawn,

he divines brilliant blue flame in hearth,

an uncomplicated complexity, rising a

Pandora’s paradox with hell-fired hair.

A nightmare dressed like a daydream

in libertine gown, tempered high heels,

an antagonist extreme, holding brave glass

chalice of mistrust, and whip of austere suspicion.

 

She strides – cracks right through his marrow,

Hands him her whip and blood-red drink

Even though they have only just met

She smiles an indecorous, whispering light

“Don’t look at your face in the mirror,

look at the nymph that sustains your soul.”

Stroking ashen hair at his tempestuous temple,

“You are not so faded yet – I think.”

 

*Excerpt from Dylan Thomas – Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

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