The Soft Bloom Of A Dying Pinwheel

Wind comes, leaving half torn remnants of color, a pinwheel once moved by breath.

Kaleidoscope

Fear is an illusion. I invite these intrusions to include truth, even if it hurts you.

What does my face look like when I cry? Un-pretty, swollen blood red eyes.

I wonder who you are anymore as your voice echoes dismissive screams disguised as suggestions.

What is it like to be granted a wish when your first kiss was laced with bitterness?

They said they found her drowned below the galley. She had tried to scratch her way back to sea.

Empath; this solitary epitaph, words come lucid, swept on tides, murky.

and that was the day she stopped speaking, abruptly, out of the blue; without warning.

Must everything have definition in this two dimensional "I have a question need an answer about the hereafter and what might not be?"