Dying the death of a king turned breathless pauper thats recently watched all the grains of sand pass south through orbs of glass towards the grave.
Reaching to the heavens from the floor entwined in wails and deep sunken moans that labor in pangs of anxious moments which last for hours and are only everΒ superseded by short fits of shaky sleep.
Hope and its former entitlements simply derailed- shattering each of an un-numbered tomorrows leaving them void of how it was, even though that may have been better for sure.
However when grand vistas are moved by heavenly verse or demonic desires and the clouds are blown east toward the sea, its only done so that the past- has a chance to dissipate.
Then appearing far to blessedly late is the painting under the painting of that holiday when things seemed stronger When sadly it now clearly seems we were silently slipping away from one another: one sliver of space at a time.