Je Suis Hante

That art conflicts what I relent- and any form congregates- the havoc from its myth, beauty is an imitation, broken from itself; and not so much inside a mirror, but to delegate an atmosphere, where form becomes its absence; that death is not its remedy, until nothing is unreal; and every expression an interlude, receded from its symbol; in Je Suis Hante, I provoke a tension; my heroine - for her aesthetic- conflicts amnesia, when even madness, interprets its neglect; is there no divinity to confirm, when every instinct she adheres, resolves my formlessness? To speak without her tyranny, I vacate her relapse; the posit of art, too episodic, not to toil me; the following is of she- to address herself- I am the relic, her myth cannot commit:

Her petals cannot fold the wind;

A basin empties from the moon-

In tears of ash and porcelain

And purple reeds that shift too soon

That Lethe stir their memory-

The hemlock fastening its plume

Too quaint without her heraldry; 

There was no crest the rose outgrew:

The Corona Borealis

The Coventry its ash withdrew;

Salome writhes her stiffened cheek,

To narrate ghosts she can't exhume;

She fears her dance to fear her blood

Embalmed in stars and broken tombs

The silver cliffs she can't erode;

The azure of their swollen womb,

A shadow that would fasten clay,

A mirror emptied and entombed;

She is not young when winter sleeps-

The frost that wilts as if to bloom

A garden buried from itself-

The amaranth her ghost renewed:

Why sleep and not resisting bows,

 When beauty is an interlude?

The wood corroded from her sword,

The opal pasture of its wound.