Patches of green are all I see,
But green are all that plants should be,
Where oh where, did you go?
The butterflies, bees, beetles,
Fireflies, flies, and friends?

Serpents sung a harrowing tune,
Seeds of sight planted in dune,
Opaque tides,
To hell they sway,
The macabre waltz,
A masquerade.

However notoriously must one picture my being,
None may surpass,
This horrid creature of me.

The silence is deafening,
Beheld upon the creaking drawers of an escritoire,
The sonorousness of all and none,
Still, oh so still,
May the hands of which lay immobilized by this muddled mind of mine.

Treacherousness in the flesh!
It dawned on us,
As he set our home in flames,
And walked away,
From his progeny’s ashes.

Your scent lingers the air,
A distant fragrance,
Subtle taste akin,
An acacia honey toast,
On a midsummer’s fête champêtre.

The mind is a lone wanderer,
Perpetually in thought,
Amidst the crowds alike,
Of fantasies untouched,
And faux foresight.