Her tongue tied like ribbon around a parcel,
Drifting out to sea on waters of wake and lust.
The illusion of spring sprung between rains
And there were no more kings, nor castles
Made of Ivory and obsidian, just churning waters,
Where lifeless she waited for another chance.
Little shards of mirror gave her eyes figments,
Phantasms of what could have come before.
Now, the tide lost its pull, the company of wolves,
Faltering to be more than distended presence,
Until all stopped; time, gravity, meaning, love.
And she floated away, into black lagoons of nothing.
Forsaken by her own undoing, replete brimstone,
As tough as all she had come to adore, hung around her soul.
Nothing waited in those dark skies for such broken hearts as these.
© Phen Weston 2015