One in the Chamber

Salt, copper and powdered bone pour through my clenched fists,
and I snatch a glance at the man on the mantelpiece,
who rides like a Templar rushing home.

Glass and cleansing elixirs dominate my vision
inside the cool confines of this pulsating chamber.
But my dry eyes gaze adoringly on the layer of skin
covering the torso of a well dressed mannequin.

I call her Wendy Winsome, or sometimes Wynona
and artistically, or optimistically,
she accepts my persona.

Distance and dreary days separate space from time,
and I brave the outside world only occasionally.
But with ceaseless reliance it brings me questions
refined by the savagery of insolent minds.