Nothing is truly what it seems. Love wears no righteous mask where sunlight creeps.
Water is air, to a fish, and dark is light when light absorbs gloom;
seconds span the night, and each step taken is a milestone passed and gone
as my wintered limbs spread upwards, my arms the branches of an old, old elm.
Seasons meet and merge, no word exists for those in-between days,
but time, in all its fickleness, is non-existent in a multi-layered dream.
Old lace and dainty pearls adorn the frilly hem of my chocolate dress,
and life, that frenzied satirist, pays lip-service to death.
I have grief at my window, in the form of a brand new day,
while I sit here, my well-worn soul too weak and settled in apathy.
Swifter than a dragonfly on wing, (know this),
the curve of a single tear, when touched, dissolves to dust.