Twisted Dreams

The View

The grass, as you walk, tickles the soles of your pale, bare feet;
Your dress flutters and dances like fairy wings in your wake,
Even as your thin hands hold the petal-delicate fabric -
In faded pinks and yellows and baby blues.

There are whispers around you as you rise from your seat,
Voices of which paths you should and should not take,
Some gentle and soft, others harsh and demanding -
All persuading you to finally, finally choose.

The wind skims your face,
Ruffles your hair back into
And out of your field of view -
And oh, God, the view.

Uproarious mountains thunder distantly, like trembling wheat,
Growing foggier the more distantly they fight and shake,
Their serrated peaks jabbing like teeth mercilessly -
All into the deep sky which purples like a bruise.

The setting sun, nearly hidden now by the flat and soulless heat,
Spills vivid red and gold onto the clouds that halo like a lake,
The light as holy as blood and ichor soaking the heavens -
Marking neither the beginning nor the end of ruse.

Tombs, lined up in rows,
Like the old church pews
Bordering your field of view -
And oh, God, the view.

The grass is bathed in red, though from what, you dare not meet;
The cloth around you drapes in tatters, a most terrible break,
Covering not the gooseflesh on your freckled forearms -
Though it is as hot and humid as a dog's snooze.

The hill you perch upon, clenching your soil-stained sheet,
Slumbers - a hibernating beast - waiting for the shake,
The jostle when you finally stumble upon its back -
And only then will you see just what ensues.

All around you is terror,
White ghosts howl and wail
Around your field of view -
And oh, God, the view.