The Beaded Curtain

by P.S. Finger


* * *

White weeps in tears that trickle

Blue beats a heart of ice

Red the tiny fire blinking; softly strands

By no one's hands, still clacking, clicking.

 

Even in the dark they softly hum

Exhaling every meager trace

Of light remaining; think of embers

Hung in eerie droplets at the center of each one.

* * *

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