The Writers Voice
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Theresa Cecilia Garcia
She can bring them into play, with a touch
should they like to believe it is all true.
From the stars that shone out in the sky,
to the solid earth ground beneath their feet.
But dreams and shadows hide the real world
from their eyes
and splendid visions of orchids that flush the cheek
are mere visions after all.
So as if by chance
they drink from phials
precious elixirs, virulent poisons of necessity
and with illusion and perfectly erroneous
They bend forward to catch a kiss
from the Dark Angel dressed in black
bluish hue at her fingertips
disconsolate and melancholy stares.
Black pendants rattle
against treacherous and wicked dealings.
Hissing whispers rise and fall
among penetrated rampart after rampart
of harsh shrieks and laughter,
as darkness's' cool breeze sets upon them
seesawing with pleasurable sighs.
Without reproach and painful mending
Incongruous medley of cosmic songs
jostle one another in short compass
under a single window.
Red bricks grimed to black
forcing souls of men to wither and die
as their bodies decompose slowly
under an exquisite symbol.
Such forces cannot be named, cannot be spoken,
cannot be imagined
except amidst a quaint, poetic fantasy
to some foolish folklorist tale.
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