This ivory tower is bricked up with soap blocks: So when hard Hope knocks she’ll knuckle-dust Fine white-fleck blizzards to remind us: Even snow has his false-effects counterpart – So what have you stage-named your heart?
There’s no vine to climb, it won’t stick to the side: Rain-slick walls will slip-slide and suds-up; The urgent ablution of detergent absolution, A lather of missteps and sins to be drowned: Forgive me, father – for I won’t let you down.
No dirt-steps will cross this saccharine floor If bitter sweet-talk has one eye on the door: You’re wanting to leave already, eh? Well, I might have swallowed the key – So there’s freedom somewhere within me.
This ivory tower is sealed with candle wax, Snatched from flame-lit handpuppet shows, When even platonic cave-wall shadows Played a better one-night-only counterfeit of desire Than your nerve-dead hand with a tea-light fire.
My constant patrol is a hivemind of bees, Where drones drawl their symphonic frequencies Through plasma-thick nighthawked memories, Like they’re trying to tell the castle-queen: “Don’t put all your eggs in one honeycomb dream.”
There’s a mirror married to the air up here; So when Rapunzel cuts her hair (finally), This new reflection is a breath of insight: Too easy to climb? Wrong knight.
© Georgina Barley 2016