Abandoned by all her admirers. Wild White Shadow Waltz. Stands alone on a stair down the hall. Just one slip from a trip and a fall. . In a cold morning, holding her lighter.
We crashed through crazed glass in the white-hot burst of the fiery blast. We flared through choked air, in the deafening blare, in the scattering ash.
Through the wall in a soft spring rustle. Street-side selling some summer hustle. Across the Maple Street in a bristling fall. Just whistling all's a balled-up riddle.
We need a myth. We need an amethyst bridge. We need a high hanging cliff. Jump, fall and lift. We can make it. . But we need a myth. We need a path through the mist.
Throttling, hurtling, just going, going. And hurting, going. But it's gone, it's going. And not knowing where, in the ground or in the air. A golden stare, whatever.
Someone said to me, "I'll come into your dream. And speak it to you." I already knew. I found her in an attic where, dramatically, she leaned in to me.