Next Day

The white rose is hunched
Its petals dry and sore
Like cracked lips
Over licked
Nervously caressed by hungry tongues and bodies lost of warmth
I touch it gently
See the little bruises on its skin.
We are in the white place.
I walk the roads that lead to it.
I bring back light for the flower.
Space
Quiet
All that it needs to be.
I sit on the bench
Rest after I have tried these new roads.
The sky is bruised. gently.
Pink and orange.
Sliced up by the noses of planes.
Like birthday cakes and balloons.
A light swirl. movement.
Time mixed in a drum like candy floss.
The light is fading on the hill
I ring the bell
To go back into the building where I am.
Sixty days have passed in room twenty three
I fade and fall.
I am hunched like the white flower
Catching light
Watching the red marks fade on me.
It is not good
It is not bad
It is just the next day coming.