Lyra

hush, darling.

let silence speak its many tongues
to bridle our love.

who has staged our play?
to cavort your affectations
and spurn my reluctant device.

yonder on the dais,
lyrical Orpheus who in hasty passion
saw Eurydice last, until Death's
conflagration burnt follies
in Hades' heaven.

But cool the flames!
and watch the dust settle, slowly,
into our breaths, the ebbing heat
washing us, into the faded frippery
of an old artist's canvas.

blind the eyes that whisper
nothings, say nothing, naught
but thunder raucous laughter into
ears that knew.

eschew the senses
we have taken leave of, and cry
softly, the mise en scene
of babe and cradle,
innocent joy.

Not till deux ex machinas
Coos smilets from tears
and our story quavers its swan song
on life’s quixotic theatre.

when the time comes,
Give me my bouquet
and I will skirt the encore.