dusk settling upon moth eaten vine groves
descending black-dotted wings
powdered of grey white
solitude spoken within
every downstroke
tin fences, rusted into skeletons
turbulence trembling its stakes,
peeling the lovely yellow paint
where butterflies once nested
scrawny black cat
like smoldering black night
carrying two yellow moons
and hairs of silver light
a plain, forgotten location
where lovely sights once roamed
rosy red cheeks,
perfume of lavender melodies
afternoon mint tea
and lemon poppy cookies,
laughter bouncing in the mountain's ribcages
but the settlement has lost
of its melodies and sublime treatment
gone quiet but for the flutter
of moths eating away
the shelved books bleeding of neglect,
yet on an ordinary morning stroll
a young lady,
a lady with voices
singing soulfully in her chest
and daggers in her head
scars like crescent sugars in her eyes
stumbled upon the settlement
the lame, stone cottage
she knocked on the withered blue door
and found the hinges swing open
of it's own accord,
she stepped timidly
without a second thought
of where to go
stepping lightly through dust
and strewn rubble,
she lit a flame and drank the puddle
of beautiful rain water
collected in the porcelain bowl
the moths fluttered,
slight shadows like speckled dove eggs
she stroked the cat
and fed the young master with syllables
admiring the wild flowers,
tulips and lavenders,
daisies and roses
bloom outside the window
caressing each marvelous spine
of dusted books,
revealing the beaming beauty
hidden so well deep within,
pouring over the pages
glorious in the high mount of knowledge
she learned, learned how to tend
the overgrown garden which once stood
learned how cats breath
learned the tragedies of neglect
learned the balance of life and death,
the passage of time
the vessel of humanity
burdened with
wonder
she tended her garden
plucking tender sweet grapes
kiwis and even
sweet potatoes,
naming the black cat
that of the last waning light
before night befalls over the world,
the breath before when
time ceases to ache
and shadows are thrown
silent and beautiful,
speaking with the aching golden sunlight,
she washed the white stones
and made the path,
re-patched the teared curtains
cleaned the bile in the door hinges,
sweeping the filth from the floors
thatched the roof
she became a lovely, lone girl
with the black cat by the name
of things forgotten
remembered once again
like happiness and joy,
love and nourishment
knowledge and intelligence
a calming quiet like calm foggy mornings
rather than that of ineligible silence
she became a queen,
a lovely lady
of her own home
she refurnished from the rubble
and became a companion
of the tulips of the garden
and sweetness from
the purest water
streaming not too
far from home
