gypsy hand

Too brite days.
Midnights that refuse to
abide silent, secret.
Howls, empty phrases, chant
to fairytale Moons.
I tell myself
This is no ordinary room.
This is no fleeting flittering life.
This is a magical passageway
sparkling like mica, like miracles.
Quiet traces.
Luminous, soft impression.
A trailing kite tail whips and binds
muted whimpers, sojourning whispers.
Sacrificial tears shine behind mime smiles.
Crone’s gnarled fingers playing
beyond bone-ache, to spite agony,
simulate touch with intention.
By cold caricature of light,
crouched scarred shadow,
I cast silhouette of metamagic gypsy

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