Metamorphosis

How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words

David Foster Wallace, 'The Pale King'

I see a tree standing alone in a field,

but in my heart and mind, I see a newborn,

pink and not fully awake,

I smell that innocent scent on its head.

In October, gentle winds and barn door creaks,

where I really am reminded of a memory,

a soft aroma of a fall evening,

the streets are painted orange,

and the swift movement of cars easily disturbs the masterpiece,

where colors are swirled in the air,

and the wind tells the story of many lives.

It is April, and rain has dampened the sidewalk cracks,

it’s dark and the fog has made it so I cannot see too far ahead,

dim street lamps where there is no clarity beneath,

damp and hollow it is the place reminders brew,

unrelated, yet the feeling in my stomach is painfully intimate;

a cold suburban day where my pants are not properly tucked,

ankles burrowed in my boots are cold and wet,

and we make snow cones out of ivory powder,

trying to point out each lace of the clouds' sugar.

A scream, a cry, and behind black lids,

I see and hear the ocean,

which roars with uncertainty,

swallowing things whole never to be seen again,

I imagine it swallows the bad parts of me,

the waves crashing over my head,

and I gasp for air with a few laughs,

I am no longer loud, just quiet,

and in the silence I am heard,

and when salty droplets slip from my hair,

and the tips of my fingers,

I am met with scorching sand,

where the sun welcomes me,

suddenly the ocean does not scream.

The delicacy of it all is restless,

I am wrapped in a blanket even on the hottest of days,

where I can sculpt a leaf into a branch,

a branch into a tree,

I can swirl batter,

once pale and wet,

and create a plethora of small treats,

to hope the world actually tastes how sweet,

an unchartered domain within my reality,

yet I’ve breathed life into my most ethereal dream.