The flavored taste upon my breath,

Nigh depression the norm of death.

Come to me all the ravers you know,

Give me your many sons knowing where to go.

Awkward the rivers flow. 1…2…3…I count my steps,

Ashes to ashes heed the valley of the windswept.

Upon the moor the blackbird sings,

There to repeat but not to see anything.

Forward I go but told the aft to play,

Accursed I spent the beckoned day.

Nearer the morrow yesterday no more,

Confusion my mind twirls. A closed door.

© Cynthia Clark