He sprints across the field
Navigating obstacle after obstacle
Addiction, illness, depression
Bits of him flying off into the distance
His hope, dreams, will
He's falling apart, getting smaller
Propelling himself forward regardless of his destruction
The finish line is a bullet
There is no applause

Solitude ground of ashen field
The fire burnt memories feign
Happiness, joy, elucid emotions
In a place where the truth is buried.

Dry leaves left with none trodden on
Talking of theft and safety gone
In a field so tireless and abandoned
But one day comes when one reshapes surroundings.

That day will make all the bonding.

Benedict
saw Yiska
by the trees

on the school
playing field
at the top

in the shade
from the sun
some boys were

kicking ball
in a game
girls sat in

groups talking
or laughing
Benedict

walked the field
where Yiska
was standing

by the trees
all alone?
he asked her

she nodded
glad you came
wasn't sure

if you'd come
she told him
your brother said

you'd be here
Benedict
informed her

it's quiet
by the trees
and maybe

we can go
in the wood
if no one

is looking
Yiska said
Benedict

looked behind
where she stood

at the small
area
called the wood

must look out
for prefects
who come here

looking out
for couples
we'll look out

she replied
they looked back
at the school

playing field
all was clear
no one looked

so they went
in the wood
at least here

we can kiss
without eyes
seeing us

Yiska said
so they kissed
she with arms

round his neck
and his arms
round her waist

lips to lips
her fingers
soft stroking

his right ear
his fingers
soft touching

her behind
then her thigh
it was their

longest kiss
on the lips
neither breathed

(or so seemed)
then parted
and stood back

and studied
each other
she took in

hazel eyes
quiff of hair
Elvis smile

he took in
her small *******
her fine curves

of body
the longest
that we've kissed

Yiska said
two prefects
he whispered

and they hid
in bushes
in the wood

silently
as two male
prefects walked

past them both
hiding there
once they'd gone

they crept out
of the wood
by the top

near the fence
that was close
Yiska said

Benedict
smiled and said
yes it was

lips to lips
recalling
his fingers

soft touching
her behind
and her thigh

releasing
a warming
and deep sigh.

potpourri of stale disheveled grasses,
arcane and forbidden mouse holes, and masses

of leprous bristlecone pine, acid atmosphere, of venus.
sweltering, permeates gold, naked, anti-shade crevice;

torn from digested fence to digested fence.
a seething sneer in the canopy, turbid herb scents

(of spring, or morning, or rain, have since
been mumified to accompany summer’s rescindment).

and ground-dwellers, caterwauling, as this eutrophic sea
is the ulcerated stomach of a carnivorous beast.

lust drives the ferocious field,
scorching as automotive steel.

The bricks of the human world are dying.

Others are being born as we speak,
But others still are dying
And the world is dying and changing with them.

Some are dying in bleachy hospital rooms
With blood-smeared hands,
But others are not.

The world is dying in fields
With a back lain-upon by fresh harvest,
Hands caked in loam
And a face creased by sun.

The world is dying in factories,
Gazing its brains out through the smog
And over clamorous machinery,
Bleeding tears into cheap t-shirts.

The world is dying in offices,
Dreams pulled out and splayed about
Like a salmon's innards
Upon the printer-paper butcher board.

The world is dying at sea,
With salt-crusted hair
And burning, split calluses,
Beety droplets staining the passive blue.

The world dies in death:
In rusty mill bones
And hollow farms
Rented out to memories.

The world is dying,
And where is the ceremony?
Where is the procession?
Where is the twenty-one gun salute?

The world goes into many graves
Packaged in a homemade box,
With Duty fulfilled
And not a single note of "Taps".

I, in a field amongst my peers;
We are so similar
Almost all the same-
We grow together
From the soil beneath
Our stems, our roots
Combining, clustering,
We are all connected.
     I feel like I am different though,
     I have my own stem
     My own hue of pink
     My own pretty petals
     My own green leaves
     My own movement
     My own form of life.
I realize there are others
That look like me,
That grow like me,
That sway in the wind as I do.
     But I also know that
     I am my own flower-
     I am not like the rest-
     I am an individual.
This field of wildflowers,
Filled with stems and petals
That may seem the same-
Yet so exceptionally different,
Is simply a community.
What makes this vast meadow
So whole and complete,
Is every distinct blossom
Coming together-
Creating a natural
Convergence of unique,
Beautiful, living beings.

I open my arms with acceptance,
With every minute that passes,
I get feelings of spring,
So I can merge with your masses;

As distant as the sky,
As blue as the sea,
You wide green field,
Only you I am eager to see.