Loneliness. The ends of the Earth,
where the semblance of spirits spoke
through her misleading smiles —
those glib threads upon which all
hope and integrity were suspended.

Along my path when I lost my way,
I was merry to meet a woman there.
The flicker of her sapphire eyes was
my burning beacon among the blur,
but the shroud of smoke had grown too
thick, the aroma of scorched Pitch Pine,
Ash and Elm too sharp, too unkind;
my fingertips touched only the mist.

Others’ company, the joy of man,
is but an augmentation of the dust.
There was a moment during the cold
blast of winter where I met her
again, wistful beneath a dark wool shawl,
and in the time it took for the
wind to drown out my quiet voice,
she faltered and drifted away with the
leaves and the snow into the
merciless swirling white that
looked a little bit like beauty.


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