Siren
by Cam M. Roberts
Almost like a Beckettian Muse, the latterday Billie Whitelaw,
within a corridor of spectral light wherein May paces metronomic nine seconds at length,
spiraling inward, clockwork, ritual of no, unbecoming to Amy,
an anagram, and so she unmakes and negates herself,
unravels as lights minimize out of their belated installations, how her afterimage hovers,
affixed within darkness, that undoubtedly absent form, now completely unseen,
then returns as some galvanized inconceivable presence,
the inimical vastitudes of darkness with reference to the Void,
empty hole in shut blackness,
the Footfalls ringing louder in silence no nearer in distance
than its resounding ambient paths she perpetually overlaps,
as echos fail to be born from the unknown source,
so instead these yonder voices
unnerve us & disquiet the rest into our Momento Mori… and we pass…
Ubi sunt 