She walked abruptly up to her phantasm
who’d at last appeared again to beckon her away
from that old chasm in her heart. Cold and mad,
devoid of art, she would confront it – she’d be blunt with it –
to learn why it had not come sooner than it had.
Her phantasm, though, was glad. It knew that anger
is what sometimes cleaves and burns and turns
the psyche to the light. Perhaps she’d cleared her sight –
to see she never was in danger of a fall –and that phantasms aren’t really there at all.
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