iconage
this is a dream that cannot be left, these
costumes and colors and jealous looks;
I am in her shadow and casting glances
I find they envy me her adornment. But never
in all the years we have vortexed has there
been such guilt, such fear, such unbalanced hope,
such little regard for the tomorrows that hold
us captive, the audience to our futures.
Asylum has come together and welcomed us,
dancing to a victory beat and holding
fast to the ways we drift. Flashing
forwards, backwards, I have lost my time
or my good intentions and perhaps
I am, like her, drunk on my inhibitions.
Painting our hands, ready for war.
The shield and sword around my neck,
the good hard metal of dreams.