In the palm of her hand
between trails of geometry and ravines and lines that could map the surface of Mars
The rusted key idly waits for a destiny unrequited.
No, neglected, pushed into the corner of a dark chamber
in a hall of chambers and dark corners
in her mind.
The rusted key was mine.
The lock, an intricate series of oiled steel pins poised and positioned,
waiting for the mission, a call to action… that never comes.
Maybe they are waiting still… a memory of something kept until…
They are aging, once slick and smooth pistons separating oil into constituent pools
of water and sludge
in a dark chamber in a hall of dark chambers
in her mind.
Nearly a perfect pirouette of legs and charm
she slips into the arms of a kiln-fired body
essentially a ceramic toy she can smash with a word
–a sword, a single cut to shatter an illusion of courage.
She could make him drink razor blades.
And the fool would never know her final name.
But bliss drives ignorance
and as you know, when we ignore the evidence
then the evident hides in a dark corner of a locked chamber
in a dark hall of dark chambers
pushed from the abuse of razor blades and illusions
held in her mind.
Like all great magicians and mistresses,
as they dance in a bright ballroom
the ceramic boy and this pirouetting marionette
pretend they are heroes of a kind
in fine gowns and trussed up columns,
He says, “The light is the moon.”
She says, “Then it is the moon, dear”
and as they sway from one end of the hall to another,
he never notices the rusted key,
slipping from one hand to the other.