compassion

cunning disguise for sylvia
or so i believe as i stand.
my tin reflection hinting--
the wary stance and mellow smile
of her hopeless poetry.
through glass we glance, unbidden
not escaping a glimpse
those same palms, those same fingertips
which confine me to the catacombs
of misspent youth and endless ache.
my two old firestorms
my slip of hand
drenching her in my malice.
clawing for lost meaning, i crumple.
shoes trapped in pavement cracks
burdens to break my satined back.

"Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted."