Sometimes when veils fail us
and the unclothed real's
too much of tragedy to bear,
we stroke a pen across a page
or beat sporadic keyboard rhythms,
as if redemption could be fashioned
Faberge -
or wailed stratocast,
inchoate as baby-tears,
stung to utterance,
jerked Jaggered out
to find a harkener.
But we ourselves,
are the forest floor and the dark hall
behind the door,
and the ghost host
in the traveler,
busying again
undoubted responsibilities -
all those timeless frescoes told
on a jeweled eggshell's inner wall.
..................
Apologies to Mick Jagger, Walter de la Mare, and others.
