ivaana

She was once a woman. Now she is just an idea. She scribbles her heart between rocks and puddles, dust and rain, the evening strips us, but her words stay. She is a will, an inscription on fallen stones, that once was real and now a color. Blue, maybe green: what color is it when you mix fire in the Cretan Lyre? Through gushed liquid light, and where the chalk colors the skies, she opens her eyes, a portrait aflame. Deep within the silence of her life, drinking the waters from Lethe she drifts into a waking sleep.