Walking down the boulevard
dedicated to abandoned dreams
alongside futuristic creatures
with amphetamine wings
shaking and muttering to themselves along the streets,
and I have brought nothing to protect me
but the shadow of her faded rosary
dangling from the neck of a slender young girl,
I hardly recognize.
Her outfit contrasting the snow
like an old weathered photograph
(to set the mood for such a somber occasion)
as the magnetic tug around my neck brings me back
to where she stands
at the juncture of two worlds,
she who’s doors are perpetually open,
yet possess a gilded lock.
Her ageless eyes exposed to the sky.
And I stare,
stripping her granite bones with my eyes
from the polluted skyline down to the filth covered street.
And as I step between them
I falter, though no palpitations are shown by my feet
as I leave the cares of the world behind
and slip through a paper thin hymn
into the ornate immersion of a silhouetted silence.
I dare not draw a breath
while entering her womb of souls,
for fear of contamination.
Because you breathe differently inside.
The golden air is laden with silence
from the pressure of the blue world outside
pressing in hungrily upon her brittle bones.
And like the tomb of an ancient warrior
this is not the kind of air you breathe
(and it suddenly seems disrespectful
to utter a sound.)
I have come here to see her.
The one whose rosary hangs between my breasts,
thudding against my heart with each step
across the watercolor stained floor,
and echoing throughout her cavernous body,
as is the nature of hollow things
inside this requiem for a dream.
My boots carry me further into her lair
where color filtered waves of light
wash over her smooth wooden ribs
like an underwater memorial,
centered around a lone body
hanging from the wreckage,
and prostrated on, what might be mistaken,
as the prow of a sunken ship.
I lean in gently and kiss his forehead,
(leave my penance upon his ear)
and make my way to the surface.
Her lost treasure,
dangling from his gilded neck.