Shadow (My locket)

The shadow, a form, an idea. The vision’s murky. The light,
A fen. We trudge through marsh, praising mayflies,
Envious of such wings. My locket, buried deep, near a
Sullen picture. It’s an image, an abstract, a portrait of
Goodness, an ideal; and waves, etch the idyllic—her eyes
But a vision. The shadow, a fettered jinni, a phantom,
Adrift a nightmare: we grope for such a ghost. My
Locket, buried deep, near a faceless village. The color, a
Broken sea, a shattered siren, a world to tip toe razors. The
Night, a mystic grail, akin to mass—the liturgy but a flame.
And waves, so intimately aloof. The cliff, a ritual of wings,
A chantress spell, a wiccan’s gaze—to soar so freely, to
Perish the flame. The shadow, buried within, rune
Of a thousand tears, dream of a phantom.