Overture

Smokey grey tendrils surround. Questioning as they waft past, reaching, searching, but not for me. A quizzical, nonchalent scrutiny that bears no fruit is all I am allowed.

Your eyes are so large. Your skin so pinched. You have no smile, only rictus.
But Death will not take you. No one will. Save those whose embrace you would never have known.

I climb the tree.

Dark, dusty, unfurnished. The light in the window is harsh but penetrates only weakly; on its last legs. You are there. Back turned. There is nothing to see, but still you look. We will not talk.

I climb.

The pub is filled with smoke, laughter, a hundred happy faces. Wrinked. Drinking. They push another on you. Birthdays come but once a year. And today is your day. Was your day. Oblivion never fades.

I climb.

I see the city. Ablaze with neon ochre. Sleep comes down like fog to bring rest to your weary bones and skin. You exude the warmth from your dreams and it rises to greet me.

I climb.

Atop the spiring tree with clouds of dreams that cling to bowing branches, I reach out ...

and forget.