Christine E. Ray and Eric Syrdal spin a tale of isolation in loss.
Locked away in a stone tower
rest of the world
fades
becomes dim memory
time loses meaning
becomes shapeless
days
nights
spent in solitude
differentiated
only by whether
I read precious books
by sunlight
falling soft through windows
that no longer open
or dancing candlelight
by this halflight
I read the words
of Tennyson
and his Lady of Shalott
in her lonely spire
whose shadow would fall
likewise across my
bitter landscape
but I’ve no magic mirror
to scry upon the world below
I search my embattled memory
to remember golden fields of rye
and green waves of grasses
against sapphire summer skies
here in this place
my color palette
is reduced
to the colors the melancholic
grey and brown
alternate
across flagstone and wall
and mortar in shades of ash
There was technicolor life once
music and dancing
intimate conversation
easy laughter
food delighted palate
wine danced on tongue
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