I want to talk about the antithesis between tree and flesh,
Dream, and whatever the opposite may be,
I am brought to a clearing, I believe that is what they are called,
There is an uncertainty in my words that is present in this space
The agony of this yearning feels like those melancholy nights, where fingers reach down beneath duvets to places I wish that the flowers could reach,
In a morbid sense, perhaps. I guess it all seems quite inappropriate now.
The lillies and foxgloves look like dresses, i find it funny how i still think that now
I wonder if there are little naked fairies beneath them,
Sunlight here, streams in perfect symmetry;
Watercolour traced down the length of a ruler,
For how does nature become this straight- this sure of itself?
Perhaps this is how I knew it was a dream,
And how the chirping of the birds wake me, and synchronise with my pathetic whimpers.