I emerged from the thicket with leaves in my hands.
They were the colour of dead grass and lions
And crumbled softly.
There was the view from the dreamlands
That I had sown in my mind’s eye,
Threading dull needles.
The cycles of breathing and focus breezed past -
The weightlessness didn’t hurry me
after each eternal second.
The safe place was untouched by the dreary forecast
Just as I had left it. The untidy nest
Of hushed thoughts
Invited my aching self into the comforts of a home
I could never find elsewhere –
Out there.

The best thing was the bed – clouds of foam
Framed by shadow and paced by birdsong.
The décor was unclear
But somewhere near, I heard the spell of a flute
Reeling me from the promise of sleep,
Matching my sigh,
And soon enough, you had left your boots
And your silhouette by the door,
Keeping away the storm.

It is only seconds after you leave that I hear the bells ring
Calling me back to the duff path,
Through the undergrowth.
Another day of feeling the rot of mundane living
As I now settle in the soil and wait for the leaves
To grow.