The Ghost (Part III)

By: Shalymar P.

VII
The Confession
 
And as a youthful flower bitten by a tongue of limpid blue frost who fell to the icy crusted moss beds of a frozen mire,
Still in the iron chill heat of the Winter breath blazing as the fire that swallows the lavender wood at the smoky eventide,
Was I, in the musk aired room by the eastern mirror as it rippled softly with frothy silver breakers,
And I arched my knobbed knees and fell to them cracking the aged green wood of the wrinkled floor,
And their I saw a vision of my face as a white as an elegantly carved bust of foolish aphasic Pallas in her temple of ashen ruins,
And I was to be as the fallen Babylonian gardens of Esther and her lame witted husband Xerxes,
The tender grape vines wildly growing as strangling weeds over the ruins of false deities as bronze calves,
The sweet pink roses shaven of their knotted knife point briers, the ripen scarlet blanket flowers snapped from their weak ill roots,
For I have eaten of the forbidden bough of Eden where I could hear the Euphrates sing, I pressed the crimson fruit to my thirsty lips,
And the drops of rain fairly rang from the lash of my eyes as the Morning dew slicking through furled thistles and grass,
Lone as a silver tear shivering upon a pale cheek, was I who trembled from the bite of hot fire at the stove,
As a snow pale blossom scorched in the shattered soil of the desert, and forth flowered a flaming apple fruit glistening in the Summer heat,
As the cool wind of the golden red fall faded to a soughing river baying as hungry wolves howling at the sterling iron Moon,
And in my insanity, I cried for mercy! “Good Lord,” I wept in faint lit tears by the pearl crescent stars dancing as restless golden spirits,
“The tongue of fire scorches the flesh of man in lakes of wild infernal screams! Don’t let my voice strain a lament as the violin,” I whispered,
The musky breeze as strong pale bloomed jasmine perfume wafted my shivering words, “Don’t let me join the drunken satyrs dance!
“My Lord God, have mercy on my Soul, do naught let a burnished gold tongue of fire touch my clothing of pale skin!”
“Please, don’t let the silver blue sea waving the laced froth breakers swallow my screams to be unheard by your mighty ear for I have sinned!”
 
VIII
The Dawn
 
I came to the ancient room of the eastern mirror once more at the sunlit dawn, clouds of ivory mist shimmered as silver veils,
As if the shatter dust of stars had sown as pearl beads to the low gray torrents of aurorean fog, as trembling lace flung by the wind,
And through the cold mist shone the early tender Sun, glowing as a full round fervent candle flame in the girt of blush rosy clouds,
Steaming slender golden sunbeams from the pale clear window wreathed with breeding ivy and mossy lavender beds of sweet lilac heather,
And the chill wind in the noon of Winter pricked my skin with shivering bumps as a ghost,
Now warms my breath as steam airing form the trembling kettle at the heated stove, whistling as tender song like the rattling of a church bell,
And I came to the mirror its ripplet surface as a moonlit lake garlanded by the stars of porcelain lavender lilies borne of luscious milk,
And before me bloomed as a green purple orchid in Spring, a crisp tender mouth of rearing red lips,
Eyes as thick and dark as curls of slow dripping bronze honey on a hot Summer’s day, and chestnut brown tresses sown with yellow gold blooms,
And a deeply etched plate of furrowed golden brows (as formed by the tender fingers of a sculptor).
And the maiden’s cheeks flustered with soft powdered blush, and the image whispered gently, “As a Morning rose reborn, are you and I,”
My laugher as a crisp beam of light questioned this beautiful apparition, “Who are you, a nymph? An angel?”
“Your face is my own, are cheeks have been washed and are eyes can bloom to gaze at glorious sunlight!” she told me,
“I am not a nymph nor an angel but once a nomadic phantom scorched in a flaming furnace. My cries of mercy have become songs of laughter,”
And the ghost in my silver eastern mirror faded in a swift scent in oceanic wind and lilac perfume,
Where I then twirled as a tropic orange blossom grazed by the a subtle whisper of southern wind.
 

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