She is a muse
the power of the ribboned sunset
drifting across the farthest reaches of
myriad dreams from tearful eyes
creeping through the smoke
that she is, is, is, is, is,
dancing with the void of her
soul consuming the destination
she sees but cannot feel
while entertaining the tart
taste of a reality she cannot
face and cannot deviate from
These are the paths of the misty
sordid woods that expand with
the volume and undefined boundary
of the dream world where she resides–
calm–
tree sitting–
upon branches–
wishing for the midsummer night’s dream
but she is a vapor as unreal as the flesh that
turns to worms–
turns to sands–
turns to earthen graves–
mortified by resolutions
faithfully ungrasped
discharged and enacted within
the parlance of speech–
beautiful–
holy–
forbidden and taken
issue with.
