Imagination

The fields are red,
and the sky is grey.
My heart is dead away and stone.
The hands before me cracked and old
and the distant clouds say I'm alone.

The scarecrows flesh is rough brown sack.
Glass trees refract brilliance in glaring white.
Hoardes of robot lovers praise, and smile
as I decide to fly a while,
gliding over seas of lilac light,
while never looking back,

My hands are sky,
and angels greet me.
I'm master of my world of stone;
master of my cracks and friends,
whose painted smiles say I'm alone.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.