Architectonic

Trompe L’Oeil -
when ash and ember revisit;
sparks drifting unquenched,
like uneasiness,
sifting down
below.

The ceiling — once a saline dream,
has turned to russet clay, in betrayal
of the sequinned ships
that used to wink
with every toss and turn.

Odd, how engulfing warmth
holds no cheer 
when unshared, and the words 
in the cracks no longer speak
to any one.
Not even you…

The blind fool.

Like what you read? Give TashInTheClouds a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.