The Good place

Tipsy dreams

I dreamt of you last night.

Swimming inside a giant hourglass

filled with red.

Stark naked.

Not even remotely titillated.

I mean it's one thing to vibe off,

'Bathing in enemy blood,'

another to bubble through it.

Neat trick, telling the Sun

that it's Red wine.

Well, the children need to be protected.

Especially your own.

But, why tie a Sunflower to your waist?

Is that us humans?

Gurgling in the eddies of your trails.

All the red in the world couldn't overcome

the pink of your feet.

I need only ask

as the sun pulls its compatriot

(It's the world's longest staring contest, of course)

unto the horizon,

and through.

You get cascaded deep into the neck

quick-sanding into the sediment.

(Some bastard can't just extinguish, can they?)

The white wine hates you though.

Hates your splashy feet.

That's why calling it an emergence would be a mistake -

Getting throttled from the bottom into the air

in less than a second.

Chaos is always welcome here,

welcome to be thwarted.

Also, birthday suits are a big nein.

The Fuhrer always sends a green cloak/uniform

never to be worn.

You love to treadmill on the lake though.

Plagiarized but effective.

And necessary.

Rotating Earth is a natural phenomenon, they say.

You have an absolute resentment for the place.

Understood, its beauty did cost you your virility and,

all we see is its utility.

God, what is it with all the green?

Anyway, it's evening now.

The least un-favourite part.

A bit of red squeezing into golden white.

A bit of white diluting the bathwater.

The beginning of a new night comes in pink.

The most beautiful sight

of your baby slipping into sleep.

Reaching you from the eyes.

Throwing billions of hands towards you.

Trying to save you from the dark.

Innocence; benevolence.

Tell me, is this why Rosé is the most expensive?