After the dust had cleared it became apparent that no amount of destruction could layer and soften the pain with a cushion of dove grey silica. Even in broken pieces those pieces dwelt whole in the mind, charging through the foamy waters of muddled memory like a silver trout giving only fleeting glimpses of his shy side, a sunlight reflection, bouncing back to blind the eyes. It was a moth, grey with granite wings, addicted to the blaze of flame, that brought me back. Through the maze of arteries of stone cold hearts I could point and say 'it is not enough.' As it freed me I caged it captive on a silver string, amazed at tiny feathered face. It had the grace of a teacher existentialized, in disguise a guru bowing down to me. It left dust on my wings and broken legs on my finger tips. Still I stole a glance at what was left, ever reticent, approaching the end. There are no happy endings. With lungs perfumed with mica chips, toxic asbestos of a past unreconciled, I strolled through the crumbled foundation, strove to right align the fallen forms of my imagination, paused at a pile transformed into a dancing David naked doe-eyed in the endless rock garden. He stood next to the fish pond, infamy now, only as a perch for hungry birds. It was the leaf that stopped me. Under this dismal wreckage a small weed of life trembled and breathed light, and softly folded taking flight on the metallic wings of wind. To the north my eyes flew haphazardly, unused to the aerodynamics of blue sky. There dwelt love-- mortal enemy of sanity, slain, dueling sword clasped in both hands. It is too much to think the blood of his enemy went unspilled. And I awoke to find it was a dream to which waking did not stir the scene.
