By the light of a thousand watts,
one thousand units of particular energy,
on the white walls of my mind.
He’s there. Where?
“Look behind you!”
He greets me with greyscale cheek,
Summoned by the magic lantern of our modern fears
he sways, it appears,
with the swagger of the Tramp
who flickers still in the vaults of film,
for he too lifts the spirits of the newly depressed
with his silent satire.
I watch him as the white sun turns,
etching peripherally its fiery ellipse,
its afterimage burning on my retina
and glowing in his heart
for he is my partial eclipse,
a jester suggester of mimicry,
the devil that dances on my back.
Until the lights go out.
still no thaw
nailed up door
on the floor
bed of straw
red and raw
alive no more
Martina Meinster is an aspiring writer of fun, serious, and erotic poems. Follow her travels at: http://my.secondlife.com/martina.meinster.