I was told a brain on poem was a terrible thing to waste . To which I retorted ,"Which one is wasted?"

"We walk upon the brown"*
Giver of life,
"We walk upon the brown"
Fertile mother earth,
"We walk upon the brown"
She feeds upon us when gone,
"We walk upon the brown"
We strolled on deaths mattress
So many below, for soon we will
Be one of those, while others
"Walk upon the brown"
Mother earth  feasts on death below.

Wanting to
learn the jungle from the mattress,
I set it outside, surrounded,
by a mosquito net
pitched unto two
palm trees, in winter to
avoid coconuts falling by the southern terrace;
you should've joined me
In February, I can tell you
I never slept for carnaval.

The edge of the mattress
seats my brittle, crouched over body
Or maybe a corpse
rotted by the swirling troubles
that dizzy such a potential mind
into a useless blend of mess and worry
And the heart, left so empty
after the pathetically desperate offers it chanced for love
for a core to this depleting vessel
But now left more bare than the farthest of trenches
or the frigidly dry desert winds
More stale in my sleep than the powerless sands
whisked by its ruthless wrath
The slumbering visions
so personally horrifying
The void that infects my soul, so closely as exhausting
as when they end with my eyes' opening

Thinking of you sleeping by my side rouses new feelings deep within me. Leftover makeup melts off my face and I sink lower and lower into the mattress. I remind myself that I can't fall any lower than the floor, although it feels like the opposite.