Sunrise or Sunset; The Garden of Hugs

Mohavea Confertiflora

Everything you do.

Is all that I knew.

Slipped and abandoned intention.

And within you was a truth.

Not quite alive, yes?

Not quite dead, no?

Bruised and battered by all things that were said.

A creeping crawl down a slippery slope.

At the bottom of slick surfaces were a strange people.

Echoing whispers calling within the confines of your chest.

Couldn't run and held close by fear of the unknown.

It clung on tight like the ache in your heart.

And all you could do was close your eyes and await even more agony.

Suddenly, snatched by the chest and yanked down the hill.

Flashes of lights and colors.

It felt like that weird summer.

Always when the feeling of letting go crept in.

It was dissolved in an instant by that titanic grasp.

The people.

They were watching.

The tribe was waiting.

A crash course into a dying.

It came like a cold shock of a fresh shower.

Slamming into the sleek and smooth mud waiting below.

A body broken and scattered like petals from the breeze in your wake.

Crumbled beyond recognition.

Straining to see.

That beyond the valley of mud was bright skies.

It hurts, yes?

The tribe drawing closer.

Enveloped in the slick red clay.

Though not angry.

Tepid eyes instead holding a grief that reflected a dying.

Oh, child of the stars.

This people.

This tribe of mud.

They weep for you.

Closing in and around.

Cloaking like the darkness of sleep.

They weep.

Covering fearful eyes with chilled hands.