By Hidden

I write what I see
I see what I know
Today’s season is about warmth
Heat burning on the face as it rests bare before a burning orb
The dead things: they morph
Something I need to learn to do
I shut my hollow eyes
Feeling long lashes dust my cheeks
Don’t listen to the conniving creature’s lies
The grass blades tickle one warm palm
I could sleep here
So so so calm
The other hand has a different sensation
Cold jagged rocks that combine with distant wailing
An agonizingly horrid situation
It’s only a disillusioned dream
Nothing is ever what it seems