The grass withers and the flower fades.
A tree falls in the forest and no one hears a sound.
Suns set; eyes close.
The inevitability is reforged into ornate destiny and gilded providence.
All ferries trudge to the west, across the river, to the by and by, to the islands of the blessed.
Ashes minuet with dust.
Bowing, swirling; drawing eye to eye.
Rust. So much rust. And rot.
Endless epochs of paint and polish to rebrand death.
Silk flower and botox deceptions brilliantly cursived onto hearts already interred in walking comas.
You and I...
Are there still embers?
Will we stand and face the infinite beyond with clear eyes and pure hearts?
Will our flames be found bowing, swirling; drawing eye to eye?
I know too many strangers.
