…is now an illusion

Loss holds me
in the palm of her hand

in her labyrinth
of memories
of joy and of tears

she is dark
as dark as the black glass
of the weeping night

reflectionless
and unbreakable

endless mirrors
of emotions
fill her corridors
and corners

standing here
in this empty space
I don my mask

in the brief second
between breaths
I can see your face

the light of your soul
visible for a second
then vanished
between heartbeats

internal chaos
has found its wings
and circles me

in this moment
this malleable moment
sorrow becomes
the incoming tide

waves
gently lapping
back and forth
and back again

their whispers
so soft
they can barely
be heard
in the silence

time
is now an illusion

the leaves
of our pages
that once turned
as the seasons turned

are now
gently contained
between the covers
of darkness

© Ann Bagnall