She is trapped. All gray. 

Your reflection, a glimpse 

of you wherever she turns; 

but you are not there. 

Mirrors on every wall. House 

of illusions. But she is 

alone. She abandons you, 

leaves your memory to 

rot in the broken hurting

house, high on wander-

-lust, stars in her eyes. 

Sudden singing, clarion, your 

stirring voice. No, she tells 

herself. Only her imagination. 

Where is she? She looks to the 

sky. Fleecy snow-white clouds 

loafing about. Syrupy sunlight. 

Saffron fronds clamber 

up poplar branches. 

Empyrean land. 

Zephyr tickles her nape; chills 

up her spine. It can’t be. 

You are not with her. Hope 

will not disrupt her peace. Into 

the forest she goes, leaves 

softly crunching under her 

bare feet, she rambles 

through the trees, a pool 

shimmers like liquid gold,

like ambrosia, sweet nectar,

water-falling, tumbling into it, 

she listens to the trickle of 

crystal liquid, its drip drip drip, 

a dizzy echo of you in the pond; oh, it is you, you never left; she whirls around, pure ecstasy painted on her glowing visage, then– 

–not you. Never you. Your ghost melts into the water. Only her diaphanous reflection stares back at her, never-smiling, gray again, never free, no Never-land. Runaway lost girl, forever-astray, slips into the water. 

Adrift. 

Another soul lost to Asphodel.