Vertigo:
or when Kim Novak wears Edith Head
The ghostly white coat she wears,
unbuttoned but closed discreetly,
reveals the lie that will draw him in.
The sheer black scarf wound around her neck
like a deathly finger crooked against the wind
will be his undoing,
his slow descent into madness.
She is a mystery in black and magenta, a dream in sea foam.
Materializing out of the ghastly pallor of death,
her hair a spiral gelato of icy perfection,
she sends him
spiraling down a well of artifice
of his own rendering.
But it is too late;
even when the truth is revealed
it is too late.
The peal of the bell tower
awakes the dreamer
and ends the dream.
I know what he does not, having watched
his nightmare unfold countless times––
we are all illusions. Visions imagined by a master manipulator
who records our folly for the edification of the masses.
We are mere fashion,
impeccable stylists
who
continue to
step into
the darkness,
where obsessive eyes
peel away delusions
we try hard
to sustain
in the daylight.
Comments (1)
Beautiful! ♥️