I saw in a dream,
A maiden whose cries foamed at the lips of waves,
and dissolved into a pool of lethargic streams.
Dripping down the ceilings and through the rocky tides,
her sobs showered the walls in crystalline waterfalls.
Walls twice high as the tears that she slept in -
a borderline gossamer cube of a thousand facial reflections.
Metronomic beats pulsated in her ocean of gloom;
in the passing of roaring liquid currents of emotion.
Liquid floods that thrashed against her dampened body.
Her grieving drowned the alarming pulse of her conscience into a watery debate,
all the while an echo of heated anger ruptured shape
Sitting at a bistro,
I grin at the sight of a bird
Blithely flapping her wings.
Feathers dark and bold
In the shape of crescent moons.
They mirror the painted echoes
Of her elegantly woven voice.
She flies diligently
Beneath the radiant and mysterious sun,
Composing a luminous eclipse.
I am astray.
She looks up, knowingly, to the skies
And then back down.
Does she not recognize the potential of her wings?
Evermore, she has the choice
To escape the prison of the clouds
And catch a glimpse of heaven,
Yet rejects it.
Perhaps one may assume
That she does not know what lies above the skies,
But rather that which lies against