To Be Titled
Atop a Hill there lives a Man
With flowers sprouting from His hands.
Each petal brushes upon my face,
Delivering an aroma so astute
And crisp as the ocean's shore
That other scents exist no more.
Waterlilies and wild berries fill my nose,
Closing each nostril and sewing them shut in bows,
While my mouth moves about the apples
Which hanged from his hair.
Each strand so smooth and silky,
Skin falling away in golden clumps
And ruby juice running down my chin,
Until I could not taste again.
Azure, violet, and cardinal flower
Fill my eyes as the juice turned sour,
Making my mouth tighten and pucker
Like a noose on an undertaker's birthday.
Every petal, another shade,
Stroking my lashes
And lulling each eye shut
Replacing both with coal and soot.
Blindly, I rub His grassy chest,
Each blade poking me with tenderness,
Warming my hands, caressing my veins.
Flowery fingers gently cradle my skull,
Forcefully his roots entangle my figure
And we bathe together in the sun,
When finally my frame goes numb.
We sit, or stand, or float, or move,
Atop a Hill, or in a Grove,
Unknown to me as I doze off daily, weekly.
Time passes quickly or slowly,
Without worry or regard,
With the frustration of a traveling gambler
Trapped in Nevada with nary a nickel
Or stuck in Antarctica with a cool million.
And I listen as a child draws near,
Making me lament my ability to hear.