Doubt seeps in and it seers the mind

Implications of absence dismay

Mystified, obfuscated by all

Textures drift and the present unbind.


Pulling threads from the hem of my skirt,

Lips stained burgundy… remnant of hope

That the timepiece was wrong.  He will come.

His escape a success. Him — unhurt.


Before the end of time


Before the end of time

Now. With this day
What shall I do?
My body aches,
With sleep, my veins a-cursing.

I tiptoe to the door:
What shall I see?
Under my toes
The cold in thunder strokes awoke.

So many textures,
Colours new…
Yet unexplored.
The torpor folds amid the sun-grey coils.

It is not language, but how we experience it that will change.