I have been fabricating tales,
Tall and Long;
Draped with clouds and skies and winds.
Mountains rip the blue,
Thin as leaves in the waning light.
Grass glistening with crystal
poured from the heart of the
Gray,
Looming
Mass.
Here the rain is warm
and sweet,
not cool and bitter
like the shroud you’ve cast over my head.
A pressing force,
A painful pressure.
I lay down on the white
between the ink
and the daisies, holding words
and tasting the falling sky.