Buds are blossoming in articulate spring patterns,

awakening.

Each a beautiful specimen of mint blue, throbbing red,

Brazillian yellow

but her world remains an infinite 50s film strip

Black (of the hellholes)

and white (of the enigmatic tumors)

Monotonous

and mute.

So she wills her swollen eyelids shut,

and treads the path of the omnipotent sun,

pulling the periwinkles towards her

fastening and ixora crown on her beautiful head

filling her stomach and mouth with roses

while ever so carefully pouring sap into all of the crevices of her bruised body.

Encompassing her hips, knees and fingertips in the symphony of dreamy leaves and the

sighing sun.

how peaceful

a return to innocence.

but a single eye opens and the horizon burns up in flames

covering her with foul soot and ashes

and slices of scorch marks.

oh the life of the voyageur.