It must be done: soft Mercy 'on the treacherous of Road.
You are the indelible impression, the imprint on my chest, why I cannot breathe effortless, like a young man finally, again, after countless years of toll upon my everything.
The branches part for the memory of you brushing aside all life to celebrate in death the dream of Time.
We were fools, placeless, cottage’d on the Isle, wandering the Sea-soaked sands of rebellion, but never brave enough to set out on the waves.
Thus, dearest, I have left to go to greater places, where your Voice shall swirl in my ears like the brine of the eternal oceans of my loss.
You are gone. You are gone. In a moment’s damnation, I am bereft and forgetting of the charm that stole me away, and left solely with images, I cannot tell now whether I invented or extolled you.
10/09/2016 Richmond after Inception