s a t a r u c c t i i (shunia) wrote,
s a t a r u c c t i i
shunia

Grief


Everything, he tells himself, has a price.

When he tiptoed into the cold room
full of shiny metal and bright
white bells of light. It was like
stepping into a space craft.

Until he tipped his head
and looked over his nose.
There lies, reflecting blue skin
as if touched forever by moonlight.

She looked like a goddess, he thought.
He knows the chilly moon beams
had struck him, too; and froze
the thumping into silence.

When it was apparent that everything
around him resembled a picture
of a waltz stuck in the great mirror,
when diamonds crept over his eyes,

he walked out, gritting and grinding
his jaw. The dance cannot be unstuck,
cannot be more than a carousel
of fluorescent lights on a cold silver bed.

Today, his eyes are full of swirling shapes.
Everything, he tells himself, has a price.

-j.
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