Tragic Beauty

I wore beauty on my sleeve,
her name was Alice - no - Avalon

no...

She has a way of making you
forget. I dressed up Sunday feeling
Friday and by Wednesday I thought it
Monday. I don't remember
what happened but it felt like
hearing the sounds of words as music
texturing the walls of Athens

(Athena?)
with wind, song, sorrows, or arrows.

What poem are you today,
if I may ask?

Beauty is the strangest illusion
exploited by the Greek spirit.

Tragedy: Dionysus and Apollo united. In-
toxicating horror wrapped in salacious
textures making metaphors out of manacles
cast on us by oracles. Holding onto hope
however we can until untimely ripped from
the wombs of our souls and our eyelessness
still does not guard us from our fates:
never to be protected.

but the tragic moment is so important

time slows down in vivid color rhythmic

breath and perspiration scintillating

constellations in meditative recoil

Dionysus burning

while Apollo drunk
lost track of time

covers his eyes
from the sun.

Arrested imagery sweltering
just above sleeves tattered
with forgotten names of,

well, you know who you are.