SPECTERS OF FICTION

We thumb the yellowed pages anew and ponder;
Where have all the splendors gone?
Ravaged cotillions strip their shroud
of scorched silk bunting,
corseted,
constricting abyss,
mind-fields blurred through a fictional mist.

Spurned intentions hemorrhage the hollow heart.
Into a naked age, grown chafed,
its fragile bones,
lusting for something useless
as tear-stained testimonials,
and the empty pangs left behind by that phantom kiss
never quenched.