Telluride

In that place of ghosts, of glimmering crystal wax...imaginings...pealing laughter, peeling... paint...caked on the face of that old dame, sitting there, on the damned street...like a dead toad, with one croak left in her. I should have known, that all are counted lies in this place, but was unwise in the face of glamour. A center table chose for me, beneath a chandelier, waitress leaning in, it's quite late, sir...coffee here, just waiting...timbrel, chiming of the china stacked...somewhere.  I spied the finest linen lace upon the table, then, the people just...weren't there. I fail to recollect, they left...they faded from the scene, as all the house lights dimmed, until the darkness, was the only speaking thing. Arising, I departed, with unsettling chill...I never heard the music go and, though it did, never said...until we meet again, someday. The whole tent folded, and was gone...I had never been invited to the party anyway...only happened by, that night...to  the cold heart'd bite of Telluride.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: mountainroserealty.co, Telluride, Colorado