The wind blew wisps of hair about my face
as we gazed upon one another.
They called her Grandiose,
for she was.
Her face was steady with silence;
eyes shut and lips locked.
Lines across her skin were thick with age.
Vines upon her cheeks were strong with growth.
The moon cast out shadow out beside us;
mine like another being,
hers like a black abyss,
dark and jealous of the light.
They called her Grandiose,
for she was.
She curled her finger tips.
“Come here young one,
for I can show you the visions of the night
and the secrets of the past,”
she whispered.
And the breeze turned to gust
that shook the ground
beneath us.
Grandiose and I.