Thursday, November 9, 2000


By: Dalyn K. Roney

People read this and thinks it's a riddle. It is not. The last line is spoken.

Silver ribbons and purple lace.
Crying candles with singed souls.
Sinking deeper, ever deeper,
Into the engulfing firery waste.

Flickering shadows and beguiling apparitions
Dance seductively in the corners.
A giant prison with confusing dimentions
Force perceptions into a darkened stupor.

Abstract angles glare warnings of chaos.
Oily fluids gather in puddles.
Making slick the surface to the touch,
Adding scent to the senses,
Ever tickled with sensations sensuous.

Floating pictographs hover in desire
For the forbidden indulgement.
Passing cars cast beams upon
Ceilings of a spinning encasement.

"...Where am I...?"