I'm threading the narrative.
Barely there, anyway.

You can't even let a poem exist.

You say I have the entitlement issue...

Truth is, I have only caught tiny glimpses of her.
Only pieces.

Perfume on the wind.

Silence always reaching.

"Set adrift by that woman's ..." is now a dead horse that in no way could still be called a horse much less beaten;
the flies play their ancient dirge in reverence and I see Her by an old Ash.

I wave.

We're screaming.

Silence.

Perfume on the wind.

Next time, maybe.

wading through fields drowned in blood

i listen to the sound of my pounding heart

dissolve into the carrion-song

of the ravens

while you shimmer in the glow

of my absence sipping dandelion wine

from divinity itself.



do the gods love you for it

as much as i?



**** them.

it doesn't matter.



their might will be mud

and they will choose oracles

from flowers reaching for indifferent sky

in a future far beyond the reach of

their miasmic mythologies

while you smile at me behind the same glass

of wine.



again, **** them.