Gregory Cox Poet Epic

Mankind and Flowers 2

Now was the time to address the scarlet curtain hung so thoughtlessly before my 
eyes. Three drops in each eye, and the curtain swirled into visions of eddying 
crimson pools. Agony, as I shook my head to clear the drops from the surface of my 
orbs. A sense of fire flying from my face, and the curtain became a gossamer veil, 
Grotesque figures now shown through the shimmering mist, and once more three 
drops. Now a corona of red outlined the hole through which I viewed, and that view 
was like hands beneath my arms lifting me to my feet, my pain forgotten at the 
greeting to my eyes. Like a nesting chick I clung to a branch reaching up from the 
ground, and surveyed the desolation stretching to the horizon.

I recalled no celebration which could have impaired my functioning, yet as a drunk I 
swayed before the impact. Somewhere, someone was screaming, and I sought the 
source. From, the most distant view, back to me, I looked, and discovered that the 
cries of insanity issued from my own throat. There were no twisted trees to 
represent the nightmare images. Quartering the vista I was met by the twisted 
bodies of the deceased shredded corpses of mankind. Even the steadying branch, 
to which I clung, was a false impression. Upon close examination it was the 
stiffened arm of one of the lost, and I tried to jerk my hand free. Bits of the decaying 
flesh stuck to my hand, and I dropped to my knees scrubbing my hand in the mud. 
Too late, I knew I would never be free of the clasping grasp.

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