Vertigo:

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.