She lies in the shadows
of the Lady of Delusion
born between the real
deliberations making
time pass and a belief
that for her it stands
forever still anyway.
No-one will call her to
lunch today or take her
to task should she forget
to wash her hands, she is
ruled by Arcadian rhythms
deigned less quaint ideas
of rustic simplicity than the
life of a sybarite chained
to devotional luxury. From
the ease of her couch she
contemplates what is and
what might have been; as
far as she sees there is no
illusive difference to explain...
© 26 July 2007, I.D. Carswell
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