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Evolution of a Time
January 11, 2009
I once walked upon a grayish beach,
Jagged were its stones.
But the shore was of no allure,
For it was stained pink, with my own.
And so, I now sit on the meadow of yellow,
The sea swings—inescapable, from the moon.
Of what wrath it wields, I cannot recall.
Tormenting without resolve, like the grains between my feet.
I see Atropos, her hands filled with broken strings.
—Laughing on snowy dunes—
I see a person in the distance.
Drowning.
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