A bed of ferns

The man in the black coat. Just the black coat. Transparently worn. Walked in the mist through the green waters. Sank the feet in the brown mud, accidentaly. Guilt included. The ugly siren mesmerized songs of the moon, of little waves, of her allegoric tail. With the eyes quite opened and pale lips; the elbows on the edge of the hollow, she was lying on the waters. Only late at night she was found asleep in the depths of the enclosed hole. All quiet. None. Even the man gone, disappeared.Anyways, one day he could turn back and indeed, in the evening. All the same with the black coat and a clown behind his back whose laughter cracked the mist. And the waves melting all of a sudden. She bowed her neck, anxious; waves continued again their route towards her belly and she slept. A bad moment to get excited and reckless and jaded. Morbid dreams one next to the others. And him, behind this sleeping mind of her started starring at her hair. Yes, just him and her hair. Took off the coat and lay down on the mud again, in the edge; naked now. The hair, those hair pale, as the fairest sun gone now. No longer they belonged to her or to the man, or to the moon, or to the rain and the mire. The Medusa's perceptive heady tentacles clutched at a perpetual and bizarre scent of the wind. All of her dissolved for within the all blackened eyes she absorbed the saturnine presence, so naked and awakened, so there. Cold beyond the underground oasis, where the one more than the other strove to clasp, to let her inside him and die. Whispering at last a sonnet for something never lost.