I.
the rows of clouds hang like grandiose mountain ranges
in the horizons of her mind before slowly dissolving into a mist
and disappearing into the blue-black darkness of her
monologue — reiterating leave, leave, leave.II.
the flowers adorning her mind are withered and
dead from thirst — what can be plucked are the thorns
lacing the thin strands on her head. her whispers are
meek like the autumn breeze when the sun sets; it makes
no sound and possesses no voice.III.
the oceanic death resonates inside her swollen azure irises
seven seas have died and birthed mystic creatures yet
she was never one of them but — the day when she will be
in union with the skies, the space, the stars — when her body
will break out of its rotten shells, she will join them in their
looping dance.