The sky fills
with a cotton candy pink
as the sun begins to sink
behind the violet mountains.
Dead grass sways
underneath his feet
and he hums a simple tune
to pass the time.
His eyes are drooped closed,
but he is very much awake,
listening to the bees' buzzing fade
and the wind strengthening with night.
When he breathes in deeply,
sickly sweet smelling oxygen
fills his lungs,
playing with this tastebuds
and reminding him of apple pie.
He plops down on the ground
the grass scraping his worn jeans,
leaving patches of green stains.
He is content for once,
lost in this imaginary world,
this twisted fantasy.
His fingers comb the grass
and eventually he feels delicate petals
in his small palm.
When he finally lifted
the midnight black curtain
from his irises,
he found that a little chrysanthemum
be intertwined in his fingers.
He plucked it from the dirt,
but carefully,
trying to make sure
the flower stayed intact.
It was fragile
and reminded him
of a young princess,
with the way the breeze
blew across the petals,
turning them
as if it was wearing
a gown.
The apple pie scent
still flooded his nostrils
as he cranes his neck
to view the bright stars
specked across the navy sky.
This is what perfection is,
he thought.
His bright pink lips
curled into a smile
and he began to hum
the infamous tune again.
And it was then,
unfortunately,
he woke up.
