Exiting Existence

Equilibrium detained a rebellion.
Stratagems revealed ambivalent frauds.
Forward winds rewind delicate laced wings.
Jade statues oozed out honey into open mouths
that lack sweetness because they speak harsh words.
Flowers turn deadly that smoke melodies in fog.

He haunted the edge of her hippocampus.
The core of her brain sought out death.
A bend in the road drifted out riffs
of a melancholy hymn that signaled
familiar ground.
At least their was a beehive of keys.
Each key opened a portal into an unknown
event in history.
Around the world there grew a fear
that nuclear holocaust would seem to endear
a trust worthiness unforeseen to bare.
Could he hear a whispering voice of another
lousy soul lost about the dreams in a wasteland?
He thinks he could be a hero,
but another must think that too.
Both thoughts of the same dream equal to blasphemy
and that shame leads onto a new.
He counted the keys for which to pick
to find that hidden door amongst the huge, but few, trees
that must have grown here for 300 years.
He searched and searched.

A girl spied on him from above.
She crawled and sprawled her limbs gracefully like a spider
on the branches. She could leap a great distance as she had taken
to flight like a dove. She made not a sound. The branches did not creek.
She held her breath and hummed when he sung.
She had snatched an antique key off the beehive.
His was a modern key.
They could both end up in different times,
yet no one ever knows.

Between the sparse standings of trees
grow flowers that are gray and fragile with death.
Android deer run ramped in this white bulge.
The deer are adapted to eat the flowers of death.
This forest of white atmosphere, black trees, a silver beehive,
gray flowers, and the deer are of velvet covered metal
are all encapsulated in an opaque bubble.

She takes off from a wavering branch
the whole tree quivers
and the weak branch breaks
her jump is not so powerful and she falls to the ground
deathly flowers poof out in a toxic dust all around her.
She acts fast to cover her nose and mouth with her periwinkle gossamer scarf.

The boy takes notice of her
and runs over to the dust cloud.
All the airborne poisons settle and he sees her pale face.

Deep with meaning.
Unknown season.
Latch onto sacred
scrolls of leanings.

A hollowed out niche in the trunk of the tree looks
cozy for seating two struck in a gaze.
Her back is sore from the fall,
he helps her up as they stagger to the noir tree trunk.