Freedom rang,
bang bang bang
and we traversed the dense foilage
of my Sepia Jungle
Populated by Spirited faeries
Whose lives came and went with the blowing wind.
And Time dissappeared beneath the sublte sunshine
As we entered Apricot Village
Where twisted, sappy leaves gnarled between
Milky white blossoms that decorated fetal fruits,
Whose crowning golden heads pushed petals fresh,
From budding limb,
Now kidnapped by the wind, a lazy sloshing sea of air,
The ground garnished by its aged spices.
It was a village where cottages grew among the Trees.
Devoid of holiness & Dogma, but steeped in the rife Purity of Nature,
No Man was to be seen, rotting fruit about the feet of Trees,
The floors of cottages strewn with Apricot pits, fleshy fruit half eaten
By the Birds, nestled into fertile Earth, and sprouted Life
rising fresh from pichest soil.
We ate of the fruit, now rested in the Golden Afternoon, which
Reached beyond the fringe of Time,
The fleshy pulp of Apricots the strands of bygone Universes,
Which taught us how to slumber there among
The petals and the Wind.