The Good place

A Disney Story

It will be the year three thousand and three hundred.
The paradigm hasn't shifted by a lot.
Mother Earth looks nothing short of a bot.
Our existence is still hanging by the thread.

Stars don't twinkle in our eyes now.
Stardust fuels our commute.
We don't need the trees to breathe now.
Machines have nearly turned them moot.

But there was one.
And there were two.
The purple sunflower.
And you.

It's a world of dark gray skyscrapers
with a high speed elevator tree.
Your heart bleeds ocean blue.
Yours is a tree-house on a defunct Beer producing palm tree.
and a high speed slide too.

It's a world of translucent white skins
covered with transparent armour.
You like to call yourself - Sun-kissed.
Yours are seventeen documented scars
from each of the 16 rescued Christmas cats
and one from that damn antique door.

It's a world of 'fictional' reincarnations.
Shaktiman is alive. So is the Stark tower.
You have a flower.
Yours is a ten meter tall, stumped
Purple sunflower.

"Heads-up Sister! Hold your head high.
Face the sun. Breathe into the light.
For the end is forever nigh.
Sinister is the kind of the light."

You lean your head on a notch on the stump.
Under a series of hereditary notches.
As the flower raises it's slump.
Following the sepia.
It's like the poster of Mother India.

And as we are enjoying the scuffle between blue, yellow and purple
the wind uproars on a double.
A petal glides down at your feet.
Today's prayer ritual is complete.

"Dinner is served.
One Sunflower petal and fish stalk coming-up.
One bowl for the birdies. One bowl for me.
Rest for the jinns hiding in the zoo,
family of three."

Now it's the turn of the villains of the story.
Dave, Ravine and Timory.
The Brit, the Blonde and the Burnese hairy.

They were as thick as they were thieves.
No tricks up their sleeves.
Always on the lookout for the next bonanza.
Not worth more than a stanza.

Tried every possible way to swindle that giant bright light device;

Jumped over the gates.
Got slapped by invisible beings.
Tried to slingshot themselves over.
Well, hellhounds do have wings.

Overshot a tunnel. Met a shark.
Wore glittery gold in the dark.
All of seventy-nine attempts were of no use.
These were the pinnacle of obtuse.

An average man is a bigger gossipmonger than any woman.
An average drunk man can light up a story.
A bar full of average-modern-siren-fearing-drunk sailors can start a wildfire.

A simple flower becomes the "ultimate" source of immortality.
A word that strips the human of humanity.

You usually, love the silence
when you're resting under her giant mane.
But this afternoon is eerie.
Someone vacuumed the sound off this plane.

And then it starts.
It's gradual.
It's a war cry, mate.
The villagers are here at Salem's gate.

A fork stabs the lock.
"I'm gonna be immortal. I'm gonna be a god."
"I'm gonna drop that flower in one single knock."

Even as you're panicking,
Your pressure is peaking.
But you still can't be amiss.
Of the sound that's lacking.

It's nearing, the cry.
The creatures need to leave, they'll die.
So will you but,
you gotta try.

There was a moment
when you just gave up.
Every percent
of the strength in your shoulders
just boiled up.
And then fell the petal,
straight onto your face.
You shook your head
and scrunched your face.
"Not today darkness. I see you now."
The hunting spear pointed straight.
The shoulders padded up.

But, wait a second. Why didn't it glide?

You stand up straight.
Cancel all the commotion.
Turn around.
"Where the living heck is the ocean?"

A tungsten lit up in the mind.
As you saw the wave.
Bigger than you,
her,
and all of the mankind.

(In slow motion) You're still there
Absorbing the moist golden air.
With nothing to spare.
The madmen scuttling out of your hair.

It's too late now.
Or is it?

It's for you to decide.
Whether to climb the tower.
Or enjoy the shower.

Wake up woman.
We got to save the flower.