A tight fist grips,
yet wet with blood,
still slips.
Ego tumbles
down dark tunnel visions,
long looking glass
cracked and split.
Faces for masks
that never fit.
Fingers that accuse
never acquit.
With a silver tongue
smooth and slick,
easily convinced
by well spun webs.
Sold souls
already dead.
Told tall tales of dread.
Pale bone white
as the snow.
Light above
darkness below.
Hard as it holds
just to let go.
Identity smoke,
no form of its own.
Carving a face
in the stone.
Sentinel , stoic,
alone.
HG – 2015
