A melancholic rush, I am vexated to a calm. A reign serene that lies o’er the far side of abandon.
High upon the swoon, the fragrant flower in the rain; blood and ink and fire all a-saunter in the dark. Fingers of light caress spaces, between waking moments.
Empty, arid, jaded; painted brightly in the desert. Washed away in the monsoon; now staring through the veil. All the world, but a strange dream; a half-remembered story.
I half expect to wake again; upon some distant shore, even less certain about what came to pass before.