The golden, glowing egg has dropped

Beneath the bold horizon.

And a hundred declarations lay

Unsaid amid the silence.

We could hold hands beneath the stars

Chasing cars, tracing

The outlines of one another’s fingers

A touch that lingers,

Long after the light of dawn.
We could do this, but for one condition:

You’re nothing but an apparition.
The ghostly hand that rests in mine

Remains impalpable as air

And those amorous meditations

From love’s list of expectations

Remain distant from my cares.
No, the loving hand in mine is not

Of romantic contemplations.

Indeed, I’m not a girl of such mental conversations.

In such a world of idiotic memes

And shiny, cold, lifeless machines

I refuse to match time’s easy accommodations.
I wish they’d all just come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.
But no, we don’t talk of such things,

Instead remaining on topic with the earthly means

Of everyday life.

Nor, as we talk and we eat,

Do we think of those we do not meet;

Those who, with hungry stomachs and hungry eyes

would devour us with a wink.
We ignore our ties

To the people far beyond our known horizon

Who, as far as we know don’t exist

Beyond the cliff our consciousness lies in.

So here we are,

Talking and eating at our leisure

All the while, they suffer from a fever

Of literal or of figurative origin.
We are falling,

Plunging down a rabbit hole.

I’m Persephone, an innocent girl

Dragged below ground to the underworld.
I have indeed been in those fiery depths,

Seen stomachs bloated with negligence,

Seen houses of corrugated tin

Yes, I have been

In the depths of Tartarus.

Seen the men who, pushing impossible boulders

End up with that very rock back on their shoulders.

As miles stretch on under the relentless sun,

Shade reduced to a single, leafless tree.
Yet I’ve returned, free

From all those sufferings .

And I come back to our table

Willing and able

Seeing apparitions dance before me

As we talk and we eat,

And again to our homes we retreat,

As if, while we fluff our

Pillows at night there don’t

Exist those who would do anything

To have that


Pillow, maybe that

Small bit of

Bread you

Left at the restaurant

In an attempt to watch your figure.

How do you figure

We would sleep at night

Fluffing our pillows,

Seeing these phantom faces of fire?
I tire.

And although there are many miles to go

I do sleep.


Although we cannot be Narcosis flowers

Staring at our own reflections for hours,

Although we cannot remain

Living lives void of compassionate refrain,

We still shall live.
For, I have seen the people of those fiery depths.

But I lied, their eyes don’t flame with hunger

—they burn with life.

Maybe those who live in Tartarus

Have Elysium hearts,

And it is ours that lay in need

Of betterment.
So no, the hand that now I hold

Is not the hand of a lover.

My hand lies in the earthen grasp

Of the world, and our earth mother.


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