Afterlife of a Suicide
i have strewn small diamonds
across the psychic pathway
what thing is there to adhere to, in a promise, except that slippery fount of hope itself that’s like a water serpent in our double grip?
Did the sea recognize the cloud
As its own face, but without the scorn?
Nearing the crest was the hardest.
I recall viewing it from far away
as if it were only a simple prospect
& not a hard fast guarantee