Maryline Roux

Insipid

Insipid

There’s a taste in her mouth
lingering around;
It could be a cloud
never full enough
to cry some rain

I imagine that the buds
of her tongue have ceased
to read flavors
the way encrusted diamonds
have renounced
to shine . . .

she lets the breeze
enters
her mouth
to revive a touching moment
of nonchalance

while the wind, an old friend,
she encounters
through the seasons
of her life,
rips her skin into shreds
to never lose her
completely.

He knows much

more than most
about the madness
of such existence
—a scene—
lost in the horizon
melting in the dust
and rising through the sky.

There’s no time for anything,
dawn and dusk are chimeras
and the in-betweens
mere
lost and found

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