I love the smell of burning
asphalt in the morning,
with great flecks of concrete
debris floating through the air,
nostrils clogging with pollution
and an acrid smoke that makes
your eyes water;
burning bridges.

Reflections everywhere as shards
of mirrors fly through the looking glass
and softly cover the ground,
a sharp carpet of terrifying snow
that magnifies our lightning storm
and multiplies monsters for no reason,
for free, rattling like the bones of
skeletons in your closet.

Klio dances a quadrille with Ariadne
an aquatic ballet in the Lethe
where the thread gets lost,
it’s buried in a scrapbook with mementos
of faustian proportion and the pinnacle
of soullessness.

I am Eurydice, one primal scream
and drowsiness carries me off
in his strong arms with my wedding dress
floating on the breath of a thousand
chimaeras, my bridesmaids,
the harbingers of delicious oblivion.

Ahistorical, I have no context
I traipse through Hades but I stand
alone, a pioneer on gladiator sandals
dancing in the black rain of clean slates
and the soot of burning bridges.