Lace does strange things, by the dust in the glass. Vaguely extant thought it is. What a sombre leaf, crackling so gently upon the sill.
It twists the afternoon light that trembles with blood and x-ray orange, and shreds it into vaporised shadows. They fall in perfect cadences on the floor, washed with coppered time. With a stillness, foggy, hazed, it coats the world, the streetlights and mailbox, like a bride wrapping her heart around a vow. Yet doubt is shrouding, it lingers.
Sometimes lace breathes, but you have to be so still to see it. Half here and half not and almost sweeping away your footsteps. I see you coming home with your suit and tie, whipped by Autumn breeze. I see you through this peppered glaze. Lace is but a hallucination, shuddering in my feeble mind, as I forget to open the door.
Lace does strange things, like tying your thoughts to helium, and letting fly.