Blink, blink, blink
Summer is gone
Confused, I shake my head
As I would many, many times
But, this scene can not be shaken
The sticky June heat is replaced
comfortable cool breeze moves a golden strand
the trees are not as green
their crunchy covering is at my feet
somewhere wood burns, it is far
still my nostrils flare
Have I died?
I must be asleep then.
A deep red heart- shaped leave moves
Its point trapped under my dirty Maryjane
Well, what a pretty dream
A young girls fancy for pretty things is instinct
My fingers are on their way to my pocket when I see it
All wide head and flicking tongue
Like a rusty hook hidden in the leaves
It is death, even a child knows
as I will know it every other time we meet
A scream is planned, but not produced
Sting, slow burn, feet too heavy to move
I smell smoke, but taste metal.
Mommas hand is sweaty
Did you hear anything I just said?