Bountiful/Mourning

A thought as sweet as bountiful intent.

What comes of the past moon light is to be forgotten.

So harshly the ink floats, sailing calmly in torment.

Hands spread out, feeling with the shape of her cotton.

Tremored when hitting peak, falling back into The Waterhole.

Stars sing across the timeless sky, shining their spotlight.

The air is meek, sailing on a boat with a missing stool.

Wind spilt between two bodies, ready to wrap the night.

  

Glass mirror titled to reflect a horizon built on dream-like flections.

One last look before the morning.

Brocken and not ticking with the sounds of questionable seconds.

Hurtful describes this masked mourning.