Pale

Memories dance on panels 

Of linenfold dreams. 

Visions in ivory and lace. 

Your breath is a tangle of 

Intangible machinations. 

The taste of rhubarb 

Is on your tongue. 

Those old shades dance 

Silently again 

Through this city of bones. 

They manifest

In their cloaks 

Of deceit and misuse.

Such a simple thing, 

To be wrapped up in death. 

How sweetly the whisper

Of iron falls

Over that pale, 

All-too-human flame.  

We dance in their shadow. 

Never far from grace.