Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Chamomile Flowers

Beige, protrudes, in and out, from stale, floral cloth. Pinpricks and split fingers, teddybears with scissors for noses and tie dyed curtains. Seeping mauve light, coming in through blinds. Parody of old, hardwood floorboards, timber ever so slightly askewed. He sleeps, folded around feet, his breath whistling intermittenly like the signal of a distant steam train. Screams in the night pierce feather light slumber. Tearing you from dreams of burying dead bodies, moist and burgundy red. The tall, wrinkled trees engulf the skies' aperture and imbue a sneaky, shadowed cold. Playing until sundown, always alone. Snakes slink through tall grass, a faint hiss, reminds me of you.

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