So Antigone covered her dead brother with a sprinkling of dust?

Barely concealed from the scorching sun,
skin slimy and oozing. She’s in it for the symbol–
a riddle and an enigma,
patterns I cannot understand.

The puzzle that is me is the puzzle that
follows, the pattern that trails, for these patterns are–
redundant, as patterns are, and patterns should be.
A glint of his eyes, his scorching sun,

forms a word that pulls a string
within my patterned spirit–
Am I a violin, for glimmers and shadows of
meaning to play upon?

Woman as violin,
violin as meaning,
meaning as extension of the self,
built up like a Stradivarius to sound out

that scorching sun that hides
and glistens all about me?

In the stony earthen home Creon prepared for her,
Antigone hanged herself–
daughter of blind Oedipus,
who could not see the scorching sun–
who gouged his eyes out with the golden pins
of the woman who bore him and from whom
his own children were born.

But now listen to this–
We are all Oedipus
and Antigone is our symbolic daughter.

For no matter how we try,
the sun that gives us life
we can never look directly upon without
scorching our eyes.

We can never view head-on
the glimmers of meaning that dance around the
edges of our lives.

But remember this–
in the end  the sun shines freely onto our upturned eyes

And we do not blink.





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