The Flint

His heart is fisted, breath held.

The longest moment, the shortest time.

A shard

from the Snow Queen’s splintered mirror,

pricks the

foolish organ into half an un-lived life.

That mirror misted, breath seen,

the silent wonder, the loudest scream.

A flint

in the schoolboy’s ravaged psyche

sparks the

raging ogre into more than frenzied life.

“Speak quickly, lie slowly,

love… no, not today,

not now,

but when?”

No trains to heaven,

just box-cars to hell,

no tickets to ride

the carousel of life:

grasp the ring

and pull the edifice down.

The sheet is twisted, the bed fouled

the sweetest heaven, the little death.

A glimpse

of many-splendoured dreamland

brings the

dismal knowledge that there is no better life.