this have we reflected on in the dim nights,
the nights split at the seams;
the dreams spilling their jewels onto wet pavements
beauty has no use cries the dark mirror wordlessly
to any passer by and like an impious edict,
a tearless hound.
let the one string left hum on in the salons.
the dark mirrors reflect nothing; the quenched light
is the only light they understand;
those who have taken the heights from the angels
and assumed command
and scoff from the balustrades of the moon
it's catch as catch can all over town.
beauty has no purpose
until we can trample it down.
mary angela douglas 3 january 2017