Lost in a field of daisies.
Falling between the stalks.
Covered by their leaves.
Pulled down by their roots.
Darkness buries me.
Dirt envelopes me.
Illusion becomes reality.
A nightmare becomes hell.
No way out for me.
Only the faces of daisies.
THE DEAD love their games.
THE DEAD GAME







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Up until now I would savor the idea of rolling in a daisy field, ants and bees and all. But after poem, I have a whole new view of them.
Should I show this poem to my caregiver, Daisey?
Ron
as we rise above and pick daisies to our hearts content. Hugs from me to you, xo