Ivory Towers
This is not my first
burial.
I used to pray
while wearing painted
clothes.
Now I don only dull sin
cloth.
All my favors devoured
within the walls of desecrated
ivory towers.
I
not quite elderly,
yet my youth entirely spent.
A mirrored encounter,
my history sung
within the moth-eaten pages
of a diary.
Youthful yesterdays
bound for discovery
laid out
fine and
set on repeat.
Lessons doomed for
duplication
throughout all my ages.
For I have yet to absorb
that when all manner of
positive things
are finally fulfilled,
all will be returned to me.
Linda Imbler
Tags:
Poetry