Sunday, March 13, 2011

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Now with purpose

When a shiny silver surface
Made her shudder like a circus
Tightrope walker, now with purpose,
Now with worry, now with nerves as
She could barely see the curves of
Her own face, did she deserve this,
To be made to shake and shiver
--strange, the mix of pain and pleasure
--Like she felt upon her very frame
The hushed but heavy dancing
Of a ghost across her grave?