…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
and 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