Mind lost,
me following suit:
the land is barren.

The click of my pen
is all I can hear.
Indistinguishably mundane shrubs
and patches of itchy grass are all I can see.

So I walk—no I run,
trying to escape a wasteland
only feeding me desire.

I run, and I stop.
Hanging above my head
is a beacon of hope.
A fragile gardenia, white and pure
hanging from a bushel a thousand feet tall.

I reach my arms up to the gods.
I fail.
I am inspired,
so I sit, and I write.

Night falls, then dies.
Light returns,
morning birds following suit.

A crimson monster flies above me.
It stops. It sees my flower.
He loves my flower.
He mocks my inability,
snickering at my bare, ugly back,
wingless and base.

Aware of its power
he takes my flower.
Lost in a field
I give in to the hour.

~fin