My mind peeks out, seeks air, so sad
under blankets. Thoughts pop as geysers arise
entangled, grasped straws if I choose
to embellish unbounded horizons under low ceilings
so dead certain that’s all there is, all that will never be
again, this time slowly I am the clouds, fast
to set out without intent to come in or down
nor at all.

Fogbound and holy, baffled unlucky in love
unveiled this final hour, an instant before
all fades to black on wistful remains,
too much hurt to call it a day so we name her instead
Melancholia. Inside me my memories melt and fade
to unnamed stars that confuse the way
and the poetry’s wrong to herald these end times.

Grips loosen, tugs turn to slack, leaving no tether or hope,
I relinquish my heart as I spiral away.

© Chagall 2014/2019

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