Ms. N.

Events to come, I saw them shaping the present, however unforeseeable, for as long as they are real to some, accuracy bears no judgement and rivers run the passage between incredulity, they return, and they go back to a sunless horizon, fruitless and numb, despite inner alarms, despite mirrors reflecting the alternate one, and but the closest to home is chosen by a withering tone, belched from a heightless depth, an inverted existence ever longing for help to an affliction cured by an allergy, and no today can levy nurture to abide by the path life suggests, the detour sealed to announce but uncertainty, assumptions mothering what tomorrow could nest, and whoever promises intends their fair best to a weakened avail, eluded, if no one knows, least the bearer of said curse, to whom promises of loyalty are conveyed, I deposit into thy purse, a bottomless container of arms meant to reach ‘round her neck, hold tight and provoke with a stare those blue eyes of cold affairs, for past, the reliable one, merited denial in face of an absolute menace, painted as such, only it was but the warmth words had procured on her behalf, words as such inciting visions of tore lust, but if all is thus, the world follows its orbit unscathed, and promises or assumptions needn’t be maintained, if love is nearing with a calming sway and after all, tomorrow turns to a story written by two and fragility can be left to decay, locked irreversibly in a forgotten old room, bound to roam, forever, astray.