Solitude self imposed to wipe away rancid constructs...years.

Years.
Years of ingrained sirens illusions a potent elixir. She herself camnot fix her.
Fix her.
Pour fourth the elixer in Champaign flutes of limited portions so precious.
Oh.

Are we all some version of each other.Birds of a feather clinging together in shivering collusion. Oh the days and years laid out on the alter.

The sacrificed ashes blow across mountain tops to settle in cook pots as the evening sun falters. The message is lost in the details.