Flood

Untread are the markings left upon the ground.
I knew them then, just as I see them now, for such a long while.
 Still the same whimsical masquerade of statuesque white horses that floated upon my river of Lethe. 

Yet I do not ride side saddle any longer. 

I ride bare back and stark naked. Alive. So much so. I do not drink the water. I remember what is of value now. It comes back to me. in fragments. Other times its a hurricane I need to sort through.

 I leave the river and its debris as they are, as they were, as I always have known them to be and how they will remain in hibernation. For me, or any other thirsty soul to fall beneath it's spell.

 I know when its near, nearer still, the scent is repugnant to me. 
Not always, it's scent was once promising, comforting and exciting. Long gone. 
Cruel shroud to mummify with a keen and certain demise.

The lure of is false merriment is spoiled and that eerie gaiety is foul to my senses.  
The stones found at the bottom were deemed of no value.

Regal actors are a non thing. An imaginary dose of medicine. Magnificent is an over glorified state of ones imagination. As is all things of impossible beauty. Lies. The idea will suffocate. You will drown in the flood if you let yourself, it is so damn easy.

 I would sooner die of thirst then open my mouth to sleep.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen