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A black cloud’s liquid flowers
drop their fuchsia sapphire
soaked cascades.

Leaving lacquered shrouds insipid showers
‘cross dilution’s quagmire
broke landscapes.

I walked among them.
Wet.
To feel their smooth caress upon my skin.

They talked above me.
Fret.
And, spoke of a fine mess I’d put them in;

“No man’s lake becomes a river
with hands around to hold it in.
Water should run free
like atonement’s teardrops
escaping deviled ducts of sin.”

And, as the glacier melted
I realised while standing still
that I’d fell from my mistake
aside my lonely lake
my final memory;

their river forming high upon the hill.

© poormansdreams

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