A starry-night sadness,

drifts through my ears,

escaping in visions,

and flash-memories,

through my window.

A clock disintegrates,

working it's way down,

this out-reached branch,

we call consciousness.

Will it bounce on impact,

when it meets the floor's rug?

Will it splatter carefully;

silver over black, white, yellow,

and

red?

Will the broken-man's dreams,

drift down the sorrowful waters,

of Monet's liquid Palazzo da Mula?

The smile teases,

at the corners of the lips,

because life is fragile.