And the Earth collapsed beneath his arresting mien.
"What of tomorrow?" she asked,
just before her sky became an agglomerate past.
Grasped firmly, her orchid parasol
against the oncoming traffic of the inverted storm
as her vessel lifted
and pushed its way into her breath's compelling hand.
This potable motion
beyond the Empire and industry of sound
and into the slightly deranged voice of Elysium,
by a sotto voce phosphorescence.
In here, she now rest. Her
-enveloped- by this peace until its particles disperse;
finally purging itself of the desultory mean by which
all humanity has suffered the ephemerality of
In this single engaging climax
she finds that she has not died but ameliorated
amid the interweaving of aggregate wisdom to
into the inexplicable paradox of consciousness.
And all that remain
is a parasol
beneath her empty mind,
upon the very surface of that gravid whisper from which he came.