was it simply luck that caused her to turn
down this alley? bad luck? good luck?
the face she recognises opens a portal
to a past horizon, re-visiting enemies
that were once friends. beginnings
of promise that ended in toxic rejection.
like fleeting images of a stereoscope
she again feels the disintegrating of self
before the assault of negative vibes, whispered
that slowly grew, passing to others like
wolves sniffing raw-blood-meat.
as quickly as the images come
they are stripped from the reel, she
no longer believes their false truth
of her. she feels no anger over this
marbled oil and paint rendering of memory
just a strange melancholic sense of pity.
she greets this post-person with poise,
enquires on her well-being, her writing.
then with a smile, an affirmation and, ‘I must
move on,’ she closes the portal behind her
embraces the perfume of happenstance.