Heaven is not the word to awaken,
with lemon balm sprig bristle in each lung,
a staunch loam-ridden citrus bouquet,
in an urban copse of dulcet twittering tone,
avian wrens in sweet floral flute glaze,
whose madrigal a charmed chestnut chime,
vast tree canopy quiver note suspense,
clam shell ear tilt of mine to absorb,
scattered mint fragrant leaf strewn carpet,
pale grey glisten brittle branch snap I twig,
rain soak mud clump squelch quaint echo,
still morning usher draped in lambent haze,
teaser trickle stream tucked away a prickle,
deep purple rose bush as dawn shelter,
grass blade tuft flicker on rimmed bypath,
breathless so I am amidst lavish terrain,
spellbound, captivated, eye transfixed,
by clement backcloth to a city in slumber,
indigo blue signpost embossed bold cue,
for empyrean trope as shrewd street élan,
mural chalk mark swirl from deft artist,
gourmet menu flair neath parasol,
overwhelmed, stunned, air passage empty,
yet my first blush stroll sun vital tonic
It’s like all air passage ways have sealed shut, and you’re gasping, reaching out blindly in search of a solution and, slowly, that little voice in the back of your head is getting louder and louder and the list is piling up and that pressure sitting on your breast is swelling and you feel as if you’re being pulled you inside out, torn to pieces, ripped to shreds, your mind in a tug of war of sanity versus insanity and the accumulation of **** just hit you like a ton of bricks and you collapse to your knees, gasping for air, grasping for straws, clawing through the dirt, reaching for what little you can still see before you and the damn just broke and the blackness has taken hold and the dark spots dance before your eyes, mingling with the ground before you and you're ripping it to shreds begging for it to just STOP.
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