I could be forever falling. I could be the winter-withered dust assumed in sighs unsettled and retreating, a vague contingency of daylight witnessed pale and wilted in illusions painted on an evening sky before it cools.
I could yeild to the mirage of peaceful seasons. I could linger in allusions to a fleeting state of truth. I could leave it all and brave the moment in a drop of rain alone to break an ocean swell and smell upon its breath a vestige of the wind it blew.
I could see by way of blinding. I could close my eyes and steal reflections of an effigy in morning’s bleeding kiss. I could lose my way among apostles of a self-made faith and pray tommorow brings upon its skein of clouds a harvest which the torrents falling now might only hint.
I could be forever falling. I could never let escape my hope in memories and warmth. I could be forever falling, calling out your name in unheard breaths above the reddest sunset, but it’s grey instead and silent here where clouds are born and die.