Margaret

A message in a bottle

swam to me

and knocked my foot,
its soft hard up whisper echoed
“read me, read me”
and so I did.
The papyrus capered
as I uncorked the bottle
and I heard her utterances,
“This sea is a lie.
Blue is only a colour
you cannot draw in its scent
and balm your soul.
No, you cannot.
It is a lie.
You cannot immerse
your lower limbs in the sea
to shed those icky memories
sprouting out your hooves.
No, you cannot.
It is an illusion,
a lie.
You cannot sprawl naked
on your back
and savor the minty clouds
that pace through your body,
it is a trap
it will possess your body.
Yellow is only a colour
that makes autumn petals cry,
the colour that bites the hand that feeds it
it cannot be trusted.
And now you cannot fragment
your thoughts
and grant even a pinch of it
to the sun,
it will burn your thoughts
and reduce it to cinders.
The sun is a lie.
The world is a lie.
And I am a mistake”
My hands shuddered
“Margaret” was the last word.
I heard myself panting.
Her voice echoed
and I found myself shawled
with her blessings.
But, she was a lie.