In chambers dim, where shadows weave,
My mirrored self I dare perceive.
Pink roses bloom, a painted guise,
While feathered thoughts take silent flight.
My tongue, a tempest, words like wind,
To whirl and toss the soul within.
To swim in depths where echoes call,
Unfettered feet on marble sprawl.
A mermaid’s sigh, a whispered plea,
To breathe, to see, eternally.
The headlights dim, the vision nears,
Of hands outstretched, assuaging fears.
Less, I craved, from twilight’s hold,
Than waters mingled, stories told.
One night, a tapestry complete,
A whisper spun in slumber’s sheet.
But eyes unflinching, hearts unknown,
No answering pulse to claim my own.
The mirrored pond, a frozen scene,
Reflects the moon, where women convene.
Men, enigmas cloaked in night,
Like roots that twist in hidden light.
The house once shared, a severed stem,
From continents of black and white condemn.
Unmoored, we drift, in yearning’s thrall,
Then scatter, like lashes in the fall.
My own, like pollen, ether frail,
Revealing truth, a single veil.
Yet, codex locked, a name takes flight,
A searing brand, defying blight.
Life, a quick waltz with disdained breath,
The moon a mirror, mocking death.
Before the wind, before the end,
A voice of dreams, where shadows bend.
The garden slumbers, beasts unfed,
Its lights extinguished, hopes unshed.
His women, ghosts in sterile white,
No feast of senses, pure of light.
Within this introspection’s well,
A teardrop falls, the story’s spell.
Unspoken words, like embers cold,
In mirrored fragments, hearts unfold.
So let me dwell in this retreat,
Where Dickinson’s whispers softly meet.
With introspective gaze, I trace,
The paths of yearning, etched in space.
:: 12.22.2023 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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