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A Hall of Mirrors
ill conceived
With dark reflections
to deceive
From front or back
and side to side
Each look impounds
what time proscribes

Were you looking in
or looking out
When Alice voiced
her final shout
A dozen clonings
a thousand views
The glass your jailer
— in silver hues

(Dreamsleep: June, 2025)
It took a beard
Of bees,
To bring me
On my knees

Many stings,
To hear the
Bells ring

The honey of love
To soothe
The pain.
Nick Moore Jun 10
When Bob Dylan wrote,
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle mornin' I'll come followin' you.
If he'd had a mobile phone back then,
Most likely not noted the tambourine man,
Never mind following him.
Driven by red
riding hood,
wheels of eternity run
hot and cold
along the tracks
in her arm.

Around the bend
there are jigsaw
pieces of a puzzle,
scattered as destinations
once towns and villages,
now fodder for
the migrant beginner.

According to fable,
there's a wolf at the door,
home is no longer
a worthwhile rendezvous,
but a trap of origin.

Misery is a train ride,
a stray fantasy,
lingering in the wilderness
of her fractured mind.

She sells her gold bracelets,
for she needs
the dark coal,
she seeks
its deep freeze.

She can then
be many things
along the journey,
just never
a connection,
never a permanent signal.
Nick Moore May 31
Maybe the fall,
Is gravity's call.

At one with the universe,
Floating around amniotic fluid,
Not being coerced.

How
My heart aches,
When the water breaks.

Separation begins,
As does the crying,
The cord has been
Cut.
This is no oedipus complex, but a state of grace.
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