Walking through a darkened hallway
with nothing but multiplied shadows
There lies a portrait framed with nothing
but enchanted sterling silver.
A portrait of vibrant rainbow flowers,
stained with a bitter ink
overflowing the petals.
It is the fragment of an eternity of misery
Grabbing a candle illuminating the portrait
I burn it.
It’s blazing but I walk away,
unfocused on the fact that it’s on fire
and not damaged,
unfocused on the massive flames
consuming the shadows,
only focused on walking away
as a puppet who controls her ventriloquist.
As I exit, I turn around
to the burning mansion.
I leave a rose in front of the door
wilting itself away.
“End your suffering, little rose . . .
This burning house ended mine . . . ”
To be fluent in Japanese.
Tré von Proctor