the musty rouge snow
rode the dishwater green wind
for miles never landing
just misting the community of land
terrified
of hovering above
the ominous orange oceans
knowing
they'd topple down
low enough
to skim the breast of their Mother

yet they still wanted
to play with everything unlike
themselves
ignoring softly whispered warnings

floating up to meet them
in drier altitude
unaware
their precious
fiery fluid lives
had begun to melt what little
life had been given

in order to replenish
rising
percipitation

but now they will
drip and drop
upon unfertile soil
that sucks them

D
O
W
N

into their eternal graves

where home would become a vague
venetian blind
lined with ashy velvet tears

making it near impossible
to peer past the purple plague
of pessimistic pain
draped over every wall of satin soil
dilluting this cemetary
from visibility
to every eye
open
or
shut

screams are the only passion
strong enough
to penetrate this prison

ending up infecting ungrown seeds
trapping themselves
in...

stems of turquoise roses
and blood red weeds

only to spend the rest of the plants
duration of life
struggling to escape

which becomes possible
when death took hold
long after they
withered
and
fell
apart turning to mulch....

returning home

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others