Rapunzel and the Mime

there was a solitary mime
who built a tall, tall tower.
he chiseled it 1 block at a time,
polishing for hours.

if you chanced to wander by
as he worked (so intimately)
you couldn’t help but wonder why
his busy hands looked empty,
shaping thin air with a craftsman’s care.

one day a solitary girl (Rapunzel, she was called)
saw what he saw: walls of smooth pearl
rising, completely solid
to the carefree, pale blue sky;
she walked up to where he squatted
planting flowers around the base
& she touched him on the shoulder
& he turned to see her face
& he saw the recognition
in her kind, dark, caring eyes
& knew with full conviction
he had met a kindred mime.

so they moved into his tower
& dwelled happily alone
& sought no wealth or power
that wasn’t in their home.

as years passed by, they passed the time
by miming anything they liked;
like sometimes, the male mime would climb
Rapunzel’s hair (grown by their minds)
from ground to window in the sky
& heave himself in, smiling.
their bliss was blinding.

what was it that severed their bond?

one day, Rapunzel sought revenge,
let down her long, strong hair,
& right before her window’s ledge,
she cut him off, midair.

when his brains splattered in the mud,
his work bled out just like his blood;
gone was the roof that stopped the rain,
gone were the tower walls;
all these were figments of his brain.
screaming, Rapunzel falls—