The keeper of my shadow in escrow,
presumptuous of my pen's epitome.
No more bees, wildflowers, or words,
now footprints of places forgotten.
In the sand, washed away by the tides,
between the metaphors and the shoals.
In my solitude with a broken silk fan,
of nature's Hope Chest, dreaming.
Twilight's memorabilia, whispering
beneath the glass of fading neon light.
When we were discreetly ghosts,
and felt the pulse of the living.