Sorrow comes in the quiet of loss
and she offers her selfish comforts for nothing.
Calm silence of the tomb.
Still, empty shadows, veils
that blur and bind the open wounds
until they sink mutely down
under the waves of consciousness.
Like opium, you smoke her platitudes.
She throws up her chimeras
on the wall of her cave
and soon you want to see no more
for it was seeing that first betrayed you;
and so you take the brand of Polyphemus
and with one shrouded eye
gaze darkly and see but one shade.
Sorrow begins with that snaking, sinuous ssssss…
if you don’t look in her eyes,
her charms will not seize your will
and hypnotically make of you
the drunken fool bound to the rail,
waiting for the train to come.
-Kevin Trammel
3/5/2022
Flowerwatch Journal 