By J. A. Weymouth
Honour slips past vague eyes and is placed away from the window.
Red skirts wave mockingly through rigid movements as they catch each stair.
Her lips are not glass but flicker still beyond the chamber door.
A catch of cold breath rises in the air and falls onto the dust covered mirror.
Wooden sounds against the house reverberate thoroughly creating a cacophony of lust.
Hallowed emptiness lives still beyond layered silk.
And all this wanting is left with a pained stroke
gone once out of a knowing trust.