When did you start dreaming? When did it become that the stars struck something beyond inspiration. When they started to talk? Low vibrations from eons away the caterpillar trials soon gave way to solitude and then I guess you grew wings.

I had dreams long before you did. Where are my wings? This cotton field, this mountain that looms, these spring flowers that wash the passes with crimson have become something of a prison.

I heard you found something. It glows and shimmers and you can hardly hold it in your soft pink hands. You tired eating it, naively tried ******* some strange power but I heard it bit you back. News of this glowing person comes in from dusty drifters from lands I wish I could see. I take them with all my sense and taste briefly where they're from.  Sometimes your light is washed upon them.

The days have become forever here. The sun broke I think, or maybe it's tired of sharing the sky. It hangs low and turns everything this strange vibrant purple grey and all the moon flowers have died. Does the sun still work where you are?