You are 
a brass framed 
feather bed 
in the middle of 
a dilapidated forest 
white 
waxen 
cadaverous 
arms and metacarpals 
outstretched 
screeching praise to 
Father Fumigated Sky 
a tie dyed atmosphere 
embodying the ambiance 
of some apocalyptic rose garden 
bled gold, wine, 
& liquid ecstasy 
and leaked through chemical clouds 
or the coagulated tears of 
God... 

my strange, 
creaky comfort. 

may we 

watch it all 
crash down 
in peace.