Past

Past.
The Lady.
Tiring and moody.
When You wish to finally
drag away
from Her black lips
from Her rainbow fan
memories
Her feet encroach
In Red Boots
Into space-time
Into presence
Stretches transparent veil
like a shroud
over the streets
Old rain
Morning storm
Night gale
Want
to count up
but She still
and still
discards your statements
Sends new ones
wrapped
in blood red ribbons.