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Spending time with water

I lay down with pastels,

shadows falling like rain.

Realization;

I can only see life

in peripherals,

the enormity of my past

slipping through

the clouded possibilities

of my future.

And my ruby slippers

don’t seem to work

anymore.

If they ever did.

A pause;

she has to be there somewhere

in deep violet or hot pink,

gritting through

the earmarked pages

of my history book.

A plain Jane account

of death in roses,

pitiful in its perfection,

or lack there of.

I hope this one doesn’t

walk away,

and stays for a second cup

of Earl Grey,

or an organic poppy seed muffin.

And the fear sets in again.

Capability;

I sometimes feel wanted,

but I never feel needed.