Uncertain Path

 

This is is something I wrote a long time ago.

 

I’m watching your voice go out. It is dying in the rain against the cool sweeps of grey. There are cinders of paper that curl in the wind, and your image is distorted. I’m un-aware of your awareness, your hope of clinging on and making it through this.

 

The echoes of ribbits drone as I walk through the uncertain path, winding and knotted and plaid with muted colour. You are drowned out and I am immersed in the free, wild, uplifting ambrosia. Your touch is gone now. You are splinters amongst the rubble and there are no words to speak, no ears to hear the wind of your memory passing by.

 

 

Image: my own pen drawing.