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trapped in a conical
prism of light.
the streetlight's
spectral net tenuous,
there appears slowly in the mist
you. solemn statue. golden,
you come to life.
desperate attempts of
the swirling fog, jealous
it can obscure your radiance
only partially.
to be content—
viewing you from afar like this.
yet how much longer?
forgive me, o Eurydice! i am too much
a coward to face you—
let alone ready to venture
a descent into hell.
i dare not take
a single step further,
Eurydice, for i fear you
& what little remains of this resolve
may vanish completely
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YOU ARE READING
HUMAN PSYCHE
Poetrybecause that which makes us human is that which we think makes us less human
