Really itchy, vines I feel prickling my spine.
The blossom will soon bloom, the vines come with thorns.
The crimson red of the bush. It’s pedals so soft but it’s stem so stiff.
It spouts perfect green leafs. Youthful but just decor to it’s bristling stalk scattered with thorns.
The enemy bleeds red, The rose stands in red.
Days and weeks go by from something that was once clean turns into a mess of neglect.
All of that movement builds up a blanket of dust on to the places we forgo our attention.
It grows like facial hair. Forever doomed by the growth of dirt. It looks so ugly on purpose.
It howls “clean me!” as we drift by it. Ignorant of it’s dusty dance mimicking our movement.
Blowing it away won’t clean it. Absorbing it will only spread it. Accumulate it before it escalates.
It’s stop and go. Dust till dawn.
Stairs looping in spirals, endless staircases.
Is this a dream or a nightmare! Endless passages and Passthroughs, up and down and all around.
Leading nowhere, upside down or to new dimensions, no end, no clue,
the stairs just stare back at you.
To be relentlessly ruthless with no regard to reason.
Will result in an unreasonable amount of ecstasy.
Igniting extensive enigmatic, electric pulsating bolts that pivot, blot and preach.
Blinding electro-magnetic sparks synergising in circles at astonishing speeds.
Shocking your red blood cells into a rush of regrettable Renaissance.
Into the night. near a forest, in between a river crossing.
water surging, rocking sinking, dams collapsing. The night setting.
No more yowling. The lively drift away into the shadows. The river left so long and
at the end. A loud drip drops, It drinks with gleaming eyes which matched the moon.
A dark lanky figure with antlers that looped around the moon.
Snow, sure, snows on shores. So empty, so quiet.
I see nothing for miles. Some unique looking bush or plant here or there.
I could scream, you could hear the echos for miles. The birds are louder than citizens.
A basin trapped with mountains and hills surrounded by jagged cliffs and pointy tips,
drizzled in snow, hidden by fog. The peaks don’t look so far away from here.
but they only get taller the closer you get. The rock formations are an art form,
standing since the dawn of time. Astonishing pointy things they are, indeed.