He stood in the artificial nighttime light, hammer to the wall, head to the door. The clock struck twice; it was midnight. Or was it? Eyes split and ears ringing, he waded through the pool of darkness ahead. He would leave, and he would leave tonight.
The town was called Dogwood. The asylum was called Dogwood too. Anyone who entered did not leave. The gates were scarred with the souls who had dared to try. But he never saw the charcoal stones that surrounded him. He never saw the gravestone fence behind him when he left. He never knew he was locked in. He never knew he locked himself out.
The lie was that he had drowned that night. The news was dark, the night was cold. The strip of lake that reached Dogwood was deep with answers, if only you didn't drown when you asked. He looked into the sky as the news of himself melted into deception's past. He walked. He told the frog, Jerry, his mind created,"Look at the lights in the sky, my children! They're shinning!"
He walked farther into the blackness. He tore into the hands of the sky with every breath he took. If only he knew. Blacker grew the ocean in the sky. He stood with white hands shaking, black eyes watching. Knees collapsing under the weight of the moon, he slept. The cornfield grew alive with the midnight's call.
He awoke to the sound of crashing cars, if only they were real. He stood. A painting smeared itself into the morning sun. He found himself in the uncolored rain as he heard the heavens whisper. It only heaven chose his path. He found himself walking once again. The scene did not change. The crashing cars did not silence, until he crept into the depths of the forest.
"The woods are black. But for this red rose, Jerry!" He whispered as he ventured farther into the green and oaken forest. He came upon a tree. If only he knew the sorrows it held.
He looked with translucent eyes into the world before him, unable to know the lies he'd sculpted. The skies were white now, drained of life. "Isn't it wonderful to be under the sky's white roses?" He asked, peering forward into the Dogwood he had known, but would never truly see. A strip of lake blacker than the sea peered through the winter's spirit. He stood in the heat he felt. He felt as if translucent eyes watched him through his fate. He sauntered into the hands of the waiting pool before him. Underneath the broken surface of the water rippled as the time creased. He stood now, at the bottom of the blackness. He could not see. He could not feel the icy waves upon him. He sat. He watched to brutal dark of passing time. He watched his own life. And now he sees. He feels the gushing silence and he reaches one arm into the silver light above. If only he could make one last escape. If only he could have waited for the dawn to break.
And so now he rests with Dogwood secrets. The strip of lake that reached Dogwood was deep with answers, if only he didn't ask. His funeral was empty but for the casket holding him. And on his grave lay snow, upon that, a single black rose.
