fractional, piecemeal
tattered royal robes
of a child sovereign
dancing monkey courtiers
in dance floor flights of fancy
the throne,
a perpetual game of
“duck, duck, goose”
title of monarchy
changes as swiftly
as the second hand
of the reviled and feared
grandfather clock;
always chiming
on the unsuspecting head
of what might well be
the last hour
a masquerade waltz
parades of ever-changing partners
turnstiles at each end
of the ballroom
cardboard cutouts holding hands
ladles of wine,
party favors strewn about the floors,
a punchbowl full of suite keys
the night never ends,
but the sun is always rising;
it’s busy chasing ghosts,
the ephemeral fears
of revelation,
a glass onion caricature
of something referred to as
plainly obvious
the hand strikes midnight,
and midnight slashes its throat,
severing its artery,
just as the reveal
portion of the soirée
climaxes in a
feeding frenzy
the czar must feed
its myriad children,
with their thousand faces,
and their insatiable armada
of ten thousand mouths,
and their infinite rows
of sharpened teeth
a hydra-headed babe,
sprawling out of
a catacomb of cribs
all of the palace,
and all of its occupants,
are laid upon the banquet table,
or simply devoured whole,
right where they stand
the crown smiles upon itself,
having satisfied the appetites
of its innumerable infant rouges,
the task is announced as completed,
finis, coup de grâce,
“Tetelestai… it is finished.”
everyone walks away,
down the grand hallways,
elaborately ornamented,
hiding beneath the curved eaves
much hustling and bustling,
out through the facades
mad, naked revelers,
drunkenly climbing
the spires and bannisters,
and scrambling up the entablatures
some leaping desperately
from the nearest fenestrations
all are in the most superb hurry,
since the next affair
begins in but a moment
and each attendee
does so desire
to make their
grand entrance
each attendee does
desire so
the mandatory attendance
of these bacchanalias
is everything,
all that is
known
to be seen
is to exist
to be missed
is to be forgotten
to be forgotten
is to be cast
into the outer
darkness
of oblivion
dance with
whoever you like,
but dance
for to stop the twirling play
of flirtation and primping,
to cease the endless arabesque
of changing hands,
and switching costumes,
swooning and sweeping
across the dance floor
is to find oneself
face to face
with the mirror
and that,
is where
the death
of childhood
hides,
waiting
for any one of the
throngs of delirious dancers
to tire out, and pause
in quiet contemplation
so, that death may
reach out
and throttle them
slowly with a heavy chain
of opprobrium,
the sight of their
unexceptional, mundane
reflections
keep twirling,
never cease smiling,
change your masks regularly,
slip out of your wardrobe,
and don a new costume,
at least once, during each polonaise
or allegro sonata
spin, laugh, tell jokes,
drink, tell lies, twirl,
flirt, giggle and be merry,
but do not ever, ever…
stop
and above all,
stay far
away
from the
mirrors
death
waits for you,
there,
in the
mirrors
©️2023 Kevin Trent Boswell
Kevin Trent Boswell 