Angleique,
What a sad God-damned (literally, no doubt...) world, as
the night falls...the poetess herself a ghost. No, not even
a ghost. The reflection of a ghost. She is perhaps some-
what of an unholy ghost, she may think. Yet...

Samba plays. "Samba", from Potuguese, but of African
origin. West African voices in the poetess' other poem, the one about the unholy hotel, which was expertly, german(e)ly
analyzed. By an analyzer who has spent his life looking in mirrors and cups , blank tv screens,and lately computer
monitors. Striving for holyghost-hood, if any is left...

in a world of floating strangers, and
pairs of Solitude,
( the latter perhaps giving a ghostly clue
from On High
as to the solution to
the poetess' dilemma...?)

Meridian is descending...
This hardly makes sense from a naturalistic viewpoint, but
I suspect the poetess left "naturalism" far behind her, as something she studied in a philosophy class one time. It is the reason for the ghostly world she (dis)inhabits, of course,
but what can a mere poet do about paradigms long entrenched? Get sloshed to Samba, why not?
And...try to cure her bitter tongue? Build not defenses for it:
what justification does she need? From whom? Why?
Simply let it float softly in her mouth....and
taste what life has to offer freely...

as meridian descends...the sun at its highest point
falling down now into the Sea of the Eternal Night...
what interesting things we can expect when the Sun
finally reaches its home...which, if you think about it, was always its
home, for it swims in the Night, with stars
for companions, no? It is only our (naturalistic) human perspective
that sees alternations of blue and gray sky with the night: in reality it is all of a piece, yes? All One...& always always
has been & certainly always will be, forever & forever...

Samba plays as the Sun falls, hopefully gracefully
but you never know...it could always...pick up speed &
hit the Night with quite an explosion of thermonuclear
energy, you never know. Or it could merge, softly , with its home
the Night. Time will tell, I guess...

Well, the poetess seems to be safe & secure
in the

hollow

of her drum,

which beats a repetitive though insistent rhythm in the night...

James M.Emmerling