Dying sun and broken spell

pebbled on a beach strewn

with stolen harmony;

black stone, white stone,

rounded in a ring

of some sort of significance.

On a hill above the house,

up a winding citrus-lined track,

another dying sun,

a broken scream

echoed in an abandoned grove, still citrus,

mute testaments

to what the scarab saw

crouched on a gray rock,

tokens rippled across a pond,

an ocean;

ripped through spiderwebs,

witnessed,

acknowledged,

saw

in an instant

agonies and pleasure, a

tearing apart

of something that

I used to be.