smell the flower

camas meadows, purple mondays

blubber calls, and froth awaits.

who cried so loud its echo lies?

staring at their sea, remembering mine.

oh how holy were those days,

of which only memories remain.

those poets i adore, speak so highly

of a god oh so almighty...

then why is it that all i can smell

is my scent soaked through the dirt?

why is it that all i can hear

are my cries winding through the boroughs?

why is it that all i can taste

is the blood of my psalms?

not the cause of a lacking faith,

but of one far greater than theirs.

what reality may call but the one i can hold,

mold, and fold past seven.

in this light i sit and wallow,

in some sort of metaphysical chemtrail.

hallucinate a breath,

and forget the hand that once held.

your loneliness is a friend,

and you will be okay.

lean down, smell the flower,

and give it your number.