Weightless.

A bed of flowers, a field of color, the sound of birds outside, a longing dream. Petal sheets and sandals of thorns, but you must not bleed with each tender step. The insects fly through your legs, a tunnel of leaves, a womb of bark.. scented like the forest so familiar. Wings fluttering; lifted by birds..calling to their mother. Uncolored gardens below now a chrome hue. In the distance a prism of magnificent color, but alas this flower drained, awaiting your touch. Awaiting the chirping of many, looking closely into the sky for the painters brush to perhaps color me whole.

Apologies for formatting. On mobile.

Thank you.

Faust