Orphaned

A heavy sigh and vacant staring through a glass walled cell. Electric purple owls with golden eyes loom about, transfixed and silent. No going back. Bloody rays of a setting sun clash with a violet stream, teeming - granting abundance to over-burdened fruit trees. A glass of water, please. The bi-polar moon looms heavy wiping the smiles from forgotten sunflowers and so many zombies shuffle around. Hypnotized crypt-crawlers gawk at a green sign, “EXIT.” The smell is unmistakable, but it doesn’t mask the desperation. Synthetic vanilla, sterile. The glass walls will hold. It’s a strange, involuntary psychosis sitting idle, as a plastic fan grumbles away hour upon hour, under scrupling yellow eyes. There's a shortage of Ativan and Vitamin H. Another glass of water, please. A yellow pup tent is pitched in ivory sand and a purple-planked, rag-a-tag dock is tied to the sea by a red canoe. The campfire matches the moon, but all is cast inexplicably blue. Fevered dreams and sweaty palms press firmly on the temples from either side. Maybe a few more dollars will shatter the glass walls, or buy the proper paperwork. Someone is humming a pop song a few decades old, or so... It isn’t the same without the guitar solo. But still, what a lovely glowing green. “EXIT” There’s no going back, not from this involuntary psychosis… glass walls hold back the owls, for the right price. 10/25/16