It happened the same way
That a sudden curve in the road
Sends you down the wrong path,
A path full of secrets never shared.
It was never something planned.
Pinwheels spun, aroused by a cloud’s
Summer breath; then one became many
Clouds casting shadows full of doubt.
It came at you from nowhere,
From a place where life does not exist,
Released from a prison to let dreams live
While decomposed vines clung to each other.
It no longer haunted your mirrors
Nor searched for approval
The way ink floods pages as
Wretched shadows performed inside of books.
It snatched your existence; It dragged you
Into a foreign world, one without
Wonder and color and thought where
Death, for It was Death, held the key.
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(painting: The Field Of The Slain by Evelyn De Morgan, 1916)