
In the rambles of my walks I gather bouquets of illusions.
My hours, a vast perplexity of moments disconnected,
within this land of thatched thickness of grey.
Struggling to comprehend where we disappeared to
I cross one bridge, and head north, away from light.
Why does my once-strong footing now slip and misdirect.
—
I wear no bonnet for protection,
as I want to hear that voice.
from afar or behind the castle’s moat.
Perhaps a whisper or thought
from under our heart rock.
Visible to spot, should he care to leave a note.
—
Yonder, lies the trail of our steps, our jaunts and marks,
small and large, four imprints of nostalgia fading.
Images of us, light-hearted, ambling in unison
upon this shelf of moss, were sacred to us…then.
And in this present, a mystic smoke etches our shadows.
Desperation pervades and I ache for more of this eternal cycle.
— Lora