For it was not anger but sorrow—
At the Abandonment—laid bare—
The dandelion—blown to pieces—
Wishes scattered—everywhere.

She could hear their Thoughts—their Fears—
A chorus—soft—yet sharp—
She wished to hide inside herself—
A hollow—without a harp.

Self-medication’s quiet needle—
Addiction’s velvet glove—
She yearned for Home—but found illusion—
A mirage—far from Love.

She stared into the blank horizon—
Falling—farther still—
A call for asylum—ghostly scribes—
No cure for her ill will.

They stopped questioning the Overdose—
What happens—must occur—
We take precautions—but in the end—
The void—we will still endure.

He lied—his promises dissolving—
No Trust resides in Truth—
Sabotaged—her fragile Being—
An existence—gone uncouth.

The grace of a lone sparrow falters—
Circles—spiraling near—
Yet never reaching—centers hollow—

Do the flowers mourn when one is picked?
I know that question is kinda morbid and sick.
But I’ve always wondered if they somehow know,
Like for weddings and birthdays that it’s their time to go?

Do they feel sorry for lovestruck dames,
That pull off petals whilst saying their crushes’ names,
That pulled the last petal on “He loves me not”?
Do they feel bad that she’s distraught?

Do they compete on who’s the prettiest?
Each person has an opinion of which flower is the best,
Of their looks are they actually aware,
Do flowers even care?

Can I tell you my dreams?
Will you stick around long enough to understand what each means?
Should I skip over the nightmare scenes
That flicker through like 8mm on pull down screens
While the essence meanders by like dust through projector beams
Two extremes
Two cerebral regimes
Strange themes
Nothing's as it seems
Importance only found beyond the streams of screams
No, I don't think I will mention my dreams

©2024