The Surreal Sight

Looking into the yawning chasm trying to find the gem long lost The shattered shambles of the sky in the backscatters of the running river The surreal sight: throttles the medieval poet; brings back unwelcomed nostalgia, a forsaken evocation. In an attempt to fathom the waters has she fathomed out a truth unwritten? In her hand is the pen, but do the words listen to her? Did she ask to be born, nor the river did ask to flow How would she end the trifling fiction the strings in the hands of the unknown? The surreal sight: its voice echoes in her headspace; How would you end the trifling fiction the strings in the hands of the unknown?