B. Sven Telander


Persephone's Gloves


Trapped in the casual
massacre of a deep rest,

cold footprints in the snow follow
her wherever she goes

a midnight fog taps the thin
glass of her prism,

she waves,
it winks

a mystery exit and she
promises to write

if it keeps whispering
the litany of cruel secrets;

when the fog that is not fog
kisses her, she smiles and

tries not to
cry too loud.

Submitted: Sunday, October 07, 2012
Edited: Monday, October 08, 2012

Form:


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