I’ll come peaceable.

It has leaned over me. And it said it was going to be okay.
It didn’t say what was going to be okay.
It was beaming a threatening smile, if I ever saw one.
And I inhaled deeply and that pleased it.
—
Later, it said I was on my own and I’d better get used to it.
It said it had given me ample direction and that should suffice.
Passing time. And time has passed. Years have.
—
Next time me met, it was dying. And it said it was sorry.
And I, too, was sorry—and not for it, really.
It is complex. It was layered—the wrong way, I think.
—
But it says nothing anymore, only what I hear as echoes.
Cold and barren, it is a flow and a wave—perennial.