I saw two silhouettes
standing oblique
in the dark mystique
of a long dead street.

With my path blocked
from the light beyond
I was denied the prize
from whence life absconds.

Were they lovers or threats?
Or jesters and priests?
As they turned astray to face me
With eyes of charcoal gold
They undressed their bones
to bare the holes
within the prisons of their souls.

Tattooed upon these wounds
were promises forged too soon
Shattered by the witness
of the ever weeping moon,

I saw ones fate soon marooned
with great fortune entombed in doom.
Although courageous by nature,
Folly is the prisoner of passion

The second wore simple linens,
and espoused poetic virtues
He spoke of poets long since dead
but said you can reach them if you choose.

As I drew closer to these phantoms
I spied familiar faces
One was young and one was old
They spoke of conquests long foretold

One spoke of ******,
The other spoke for Buddha,
both said life is what you make it,
Tho, when I gazed into this mirror
I was neither dejected nor elated