the woman on the bench

 leaves blowing in the wind

angelic faces imprinted on clouds

fragile flowers tied in a bow

lilac cigars blowing smoke

taste buds tingled

red lips breathing in charcoal covered smoke

legs crossed and thigh agape

reflecting the light from the sun

crescent shaped marks on the back of her ankle

grass prickly and scared to graze against her skin

bench blackened and cold

raindrops balleting through the air

trees swayed and branches entangled in the forver type of love

I sat down by the river of Styx

and tilted a bottle to my lips

admired the smoke

that danced in the sky

her lips were tinged with sin

and sex

her breast breathing in out

heaved with thoughts

chained across

her neck was a cross

she fiddled with it cross

her neck

and bend her tobacco

lips down to the cross

and she shook

with tears

I sat down the river of Styx

and weighed out my sins

and tilted the bottle to my lip

and saw the reflection of myself

aging and degrading 

and shattering 

in my hand

as the bottle slipped from my hands

and the woman 

got up from the bench 

and sat down the river of styx 

and hummed 

a tune 

that 

went 

low 

and high 

insync 

with the sound 

of river 

and slowly she blurred from my mind