In the first few years the sky was clear,

Then the ground dropped out rapidly

And down

And down

And down

Tumbling, fumbling, numbing, falling.

And down a snow laden path

No two are alike; some are not alive.

Thy brain is a haven for chaotic synaptic prose

Connected to something that holds nothing.

In the next few years the sky darkened

Then the grass blew, charred and broken

This way

And that

That way.

Sliding, trying, living, wishing.

That way the clouds dance against the boughs

The rush was real; the way imagination feels

Against the heaving breast of a starving girl

Feeding off the world, but her stomach holds nothing.

In the final years the sky succumbed to tears

Then the pregnant clouds broke water

Drip drop

Pitter patter

Click click click

Washing, coughing, talking, stopping.

Across a muddy street with heavy feet

The splash of steps; drowned by puddles

Shallow enough to reflect an ocean

A bucket with a hole holds nothing.