Versailles

The road to Versailles is strewn with trunks,
broken-limbed and lifeless.
The storm hit hard.

Inside the faces of the dead
maintain marble indifference;
scenes that never were
captured in oil and canvas,
the ghosts of satin words
poised upon stone lips.
In the garden faceless automatons
slice nature with their
cookie-cutter form.

Still the Hall of Mirrors hangs serene,
offering a glittering infinity of one,
while in the distance
falls the shadow of a blade.