Swan Song

A constellation of bullet holes,

the art of seeing

wrestling with the shadow

of portent.

The remnants of the symphony 

coalesce

and assault my dreaming. 

The irony of this artistry

surfaces

and denounces my meaning.

The little dance:

heels on mahogany,

their echoes,

and rose gold ribbons.

Fashioning delicate expressions-
Theatrical tricks of vibrance:

the embers of any soliloquy

the ashes 

of any ballet.  

Music and motion

the bones of my Devotion.

Humanity finally learned 

to assume loveliness

when Loveliness 

assumed the human form