…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