I.
Perhaps,
I was the black dot
smudging the river
as the wind hummed
at the frail foot
of a lavender bush –
my mind whirled
black and white –
fragments spread in
a ring of ripples
which blended into
the impetuous pull
of the stream
the crimson trails
snuffed out
beneath my feet
but, the spectral downdraft
rapped on my windowsill –
ominous like
a clairvoyant, whose foreboding
chains the future to
the same deserted roads
and hidden precipices,
where I was swallowed whole
II.
I wanted to embraced it,
so I stepped into
a white cloth of mist –
lungs shrunk
to little orbs –
a bee buzzing
in my chest
the balmy breeze of the meadow
wrapped my soul in slumber
and assembled the quaint
reminiscence of
the night when waves
washed over the moss
and the golden Arch
gently strolled
across your
seaside penumbra –
delicate and pure
like a dewdrop
and after witnessing
such a spectacle
that rendered my heartbeat unsteady
my days, now, end when she says
her eyelids are heavy