She adds a blue pill to his other pills.
And watches, as he rides away to nightfall:
a rigid figure devoid of will.
He had spoken of kind and fickleness
and she had listened as others disagreed
about the quality of sheathed meat,
and the picking of right partners – a lot.
 
She knew with help from a lighted candle
that she could make all her relationships
absolutely fine, absolutely fine.
Because alchemy had always turned base
into gold in a sin-grinding motion.
On a dump, a million flies can't be wrong:
they're busy buzzing choruses of being
absolutely fine, absolutely fine.
 
Only when the magnificent white horse
lying by the railway line leaps up
and gallops will the last track end in light.
Fine, fine – but the last passenger will be first
only if distant wayfarers descend
to the better heights amongst the ruins.
As Elena found to her cost – a lot.