I’m starting to think that
is a curse word
without the harsh consonants
a never-ending staircase to heaven
a takeoff to certainty
in a plane with no wings
a key to royal bedchambers
that for some reason
only fits the lock
to the dragon’s cage.

When we last spoke
your mouth whispered it
like a prayer
to Ananke
but your eyes
were spinning wheels
weaving straw into gold.

I do not blame you (much)
for false soothsaying.
After all,
even funeral dirges
can sound quite lovely
from afar.

Copyright © 2018 Andrew Johnson | @WriterAndrew