A lightpost dies behind my pulsing steps;
The shadows cast around me weave and curl
As falling ashes. Silent trumpets hurl
Their echoes to the mire where dreams are kept,
Like sparks above the embers in my mind.
An image hovers, caught between my eyes
And life. The space of hopes and faith (and lies)
That lend a shallow brightness to the blind!
Of course, I must in my position test
My sanity with that we know is best:
And thus we damn ourselves with bright delusion.
And yet, although I know this is the case,
A picture floats before me, of her face,
And is, I fear, my favorite illusion.
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Submission Name: My Lovely
