Dead cells

lifted by the wind to sail through the city,
trailing with the breeze from the mountain to the seas,
hoping never to side with gravity,
visions from the stars,
a star siluette shadow on the floor,
illuminated translucent cells dancing in the wind..
like strings of hair,
they swing from her branch,
like the days when i use to travel with a whimsical imagination that
took off like the crisp leaf in the gust of wind..
maybe the same gust that took the scarf that day I drowned my sorrows,
in utter brain incoherence..
every crack on the leaf reveals a story of its travels on the wind.
The palm of your hand,
a map.

The scarf that is worth more than my life, the one that embraced the neck of a woman whose eyes recorded a life ill never know... a world that many any never know nor understand..


hands in the dirt...
the only existence left
gone with the cracked leaf on the sidewalk..
An abandon memory.

hands in the dirt.