As I travel down paths once gold,
now silvered, blighted with tarnish,
I find myself precariously perched on Mnemosyne’s back.
Running my fingers through her mane,
I listen to each clip-clop,
by the icy snows
Looking in the windows,
a graceful arm dances,
Again and again, Mnemosyne stops and starts,
place to place,
moment to moment,
and I am carried
where her will goes.
Starry night burns my eyes.
Crisp air my lungs.