Open sky. Mute clouds distant.
Everything moves delicately
through the thickness of time.
Every angle of view seems askew.
One girl chances against fear
to do something inviting.
I don’t know how to respond. In theory,
I’m already dead, gently buried
What if life is only a dream–not
in one’s head but in the gaseous perception
of some mercurial being
who has sunshine in her heart
but a cruel size?
I ask you this
because I cannot have what I love
and eternity to weep over it.
Copyright 2011 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.