You may leave as soon as you are ready
The rhododendron is still there. But it never was.
It was. A figment.
I still feel the cold, the natural.
The wind outside blows, here it is calm without warmth.
I miss the high ceilings I just left, to watch the smoke rise and
to watch the webs fall, the dust in the light.
My thoughts, they are what dictate:
they command, they yowl, they nag they control they hum they sing they scream.
They are your access into my soul and being.
I fear there is a skeleton in my closet:
I know there is one below my bed and
in the attic.
My lover brother sister father gives me the stuff I need,
and I lie him down to sleep on porcelain.
I got the stuff, so I close the door. No. Stop.
I cracked the door to let in the heat.
And the rush comes.