Somewhere over the flower fields

.Huckleberry Friend.

As i threw flower petals on the ground, throwing away my life with every petal hitting the concrete ground. Reoccurring in my head were the first words i remember my mother saying to me.   

  Thoughts of a great unknown, 
her flesh his favorite calculus, a finger drips 
a syrup sweetness, 
as her legs quiver 
with the stillness of a circus

Every encounter 
was an instruction in the dynamism and discipline
of the Ancients
with the madness of denial I'm now 
reduced.

It may seem as if my mother were in somewhat of a confused mental state, for at that point of her life she was what i like to call a huckleberry.

For a huckleberry is often confused on what it is, people may assume they are currants or blueberrys, people bite into them expecting the sweet nectar but alas it is not what they expect.

So that is why my mother is a Huckleberry, she was confused, her brain had melted into a different form, the form of something very un-human like,  something myself had not yet figured out quite what it was for i had not felt her pain but i could forsee it in her eyes. It was dark and cold, it was as if my mother had been lost in the darkness but couldn't escape.

some people may call this depression, but i would rather not use labels, labels are for the people who seek comfort and stability and find those in the wrong things, my comfort came from the place where there is always peace, the sunflower field a few miles from the barnhouse my family had lived in.

As i sat on a hill just above the sunflower field i got out my journal in which i write about my deepest thoughts.I flipped through the pages to find a white blank fresh page, it felt as if the page was at peace, i hope it found more peace than me.I started writing in it, disturbing it's peace just as the world destroyed mine.

He dances on a toe ,As light as mercury's

Sweet herald, give thy message!  No

He dances on ; the world is his, The sunshine and his wingy hat ;

His eyes are round beneath the brim :

To merely dance where he is found is fate to him

And he was born for that

He dances in a cloak Of vermeil and of blue :

The pages seem to fill themselves as my hand spills all the words from my mind to the paper. I sometimes seem to think that hands have a mind for themselves, or rather our whole body

humans do things that our mind disagrees with but our bodies do them anyways, they dont want to listen, it's intoxicating.

I was interrupted in the middle of my thoughts  as i saw a nearby tree with a swing, i adjusted my eyes to see this mysterious thing i had ignored until now, there was a girl or purely a magical creature.