It was dangerous that she only brought one pen today.
Her words were spilling all over the place,
Sloshing around like a bucket on a sea side drive.
She’s died before, but never like this:
Explosions of dreamscapes,
Images and words she could not even pick up.
It wasn’t a magical harvesting of strawberry fields or sweet frolicking in lavender.
It was a haphazard peeling of rocks from a cliff,
Dripping like graffiti pellets from the sky.
It was going to crush her, and then it did --
Crumpled up like sandcastles folding in the rain, and blooming free again.
She died, then she lived.
Ever more lightly,
Ever so whimsically,
Into the next landscape.