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I am blinded by her image,
A lone sainted visitation,
Marching on the snow swept steppes,
A ghost in isolation.
I glimpse a tribal statuette,
On white-gold desert plain;
A stallion black as ebony,
A charge of love and pain.
As celluloid flaps off the reel,
Like batwings in a dream,
The tearful burn of incinerate
Engulfs the dying screen.
Murdered in the cheap seats,
Oh, my weeping heart be still;
Impaled on silver nitrate shafts,
Such radiance drains the will.
The film has died a death,
Yet down remains the light,
And embers sear the filter
In the clapperboard of night.
Though succumbed to reality's plague,
Fading in the neon spill,
In my mirror image eyes of love
Her vision lives on still...
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