a poem

for I was a young, young girl

tossing my brush straight hair in the air

on a cold, breezy early morning in the spring

and the one after the latter

of which I knew to be the last 

I saw the crescent from the below

painted paler than the stigma

of my sorrow in the early blue

and I breathed the air within

of all that is

left for me

I watched the moon up above 

the crumbling waters below me

I close my eyes, I fly

over the meadow of dust

and the sea of the unlived

parted by the quick death of a kiss,

forgotten

I was a young, young girl

running through the meadows

and all the mountains without flowers

with my brush straight hair in the air

the sea, the sand

sunset on the long northern waves

washing away the reminiscence of a dream

did I know

now the skies are covered

with clouds ever gray

and the silhouette of a cold, breezy moon

out of sight