she lived on a cliff
it was painted with blossoms
no matter the season
they held, constellations
a fixture of sorts
for inevitable visit –
for her daily spectatorship
off that dark precipice –

and i suppose she could find
some other carved path –
but this trail, it gripped her,
called her to its scripture
of wonderland poppycock,
singing trite tale –
it never rang new,
yet it never went stale.

it’s cliff o’clock somewhere!
and just when she peers
at the jagged inviters
of those steep stumbly spears –
the nectar doth soothe her
and scatters her thoughts
never forever, but at least
while she contem-plots…

a way out of hopeless
a cheese-trap-code matrix
so tomorrow she can…what?
return to this fate-trix?

echoes of spectres
they’re nobody’s rulers
& all of her thoughts
the tools of old tutors-

what would you like
to be
when you
grow up?
To cease to exist –
how does one begin
to tell
someone this?

what a gift it would be,
to me, nothingness –
most ungrateful it sounds
to roots seep’d’n bliss –

and if that is you
then you have not
my interest,
for i know just one way –
to persist, wait, and resist.