The Mourning Haze

fleur-de-lis, why are you sad?

in the hushed hour of the mou̶rning haze,

you couldn't see colors, outlines, but wistful

ripples

objects within sight kept dustless by a soft tablecloth

covering them, loops that spread out floral designs 

so morose, fleur-de-lis on cloth

giving it all a hue that's nauseous-like

a second before you woke,

i met you on the cloud

brushed you in the hand

and then fell through,

she did,

marked the end of m̶y̶her past 

the rest was the blanket on my bed,

the thin one that doesn't make any sense

a little girl whispers, i

ˡ ⁱ ⁿ ᵍ ᵉʳ

a split second shock

as a stranger's eyes m(e̶)et h̶e̶r̶s̶ mine 

for the very first time

as if they a̶r̶e̶s̶e̶e̶i̶n̶g̶ saw somebody

that isn't supposed to be

there

born witness to lemure,

for a bygone body in your eyes unspoken lament

stuck to my back a hammer that's dark and cracked

foreboding any who dare remove 

it,

it, it, it's funny

how others can sense before you,

what is to come to be

lark! fear not oh my goo̶d f̶r̶i̶e̶n̶d̶,

i do not mean to take a step

i think it'll just happen

the wind will met me halfway

               h̶a̶d̶       ᵉh̶e̶r̶

without a word 

but simply a

breath

fleur-de-lis,

fleur-de-lis

whether from brass or iron cast be,

how so you influence me?