Flickering lights like beacon-drawn moths glide by
And in the shadowy silence she dreams of nothing,
thoughts flowing from, but not through, her brain.
Behind the eyeballs drift mutes that mean nothing,
nothing at all,
not to her nor anyone else,
now that she doesn't care.
Luscious movements of slowly sliding and twining down,
red rivers flowing to the crook of elbow and drip.....
drip.....
drip.....
dripping to strike with soft noises,
like the gentle misting rain upon the houses roofs.
Streams between each finger, caressing the palm,
dripping still,
floating upon the red river.
Small, pink tongue gently lapping, the river still flowing
until
Slowly the mists descend, along with the shadows.
Lighted eyes listlessly go out like the lanterns of a ghostship,
and the building falls in upon itself,
nothing more than a crumpled heap upon the floor.
And about her the red rivers become a lake,
Upon which
she
floats
to
Oblivion.
