She ambles toward her forever
passing over
a morass
a crevice;
and comtemplates a free fall
into the dream,
a siren in the night.
It was sublime in her slumber
not so, in her lucidity.
What calls her to do this?
The intensity like the smell of lemons
or the smell of thunder
which heightens the senses.
The invisible hand that spurns her forward.
It gleams in a frothy blur
like diamonds under a river's current
rushing forward, onward, unreachable.
She ambles toward her forever
just around the bend,
of never.
She is sinuous in her arch
in her extend to touch it
like a dancer's leap
into nothing, which was once exuberant youth.
She now hangs there like a plastic magnetic cling on a dirty window.
What calls her to do this?
They are but cracks in the cement
that go on forever
tyring to make the giant leap
in a world of the minutia
the miniscule
the speck.
She ambles toward her forever
To become the grain
To become the dirt for passersby
She wants to blow away
into the forever.
© 2011 Zollies-Spot
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