Samridhi Girdhar/The Baron

I am sick.
I can tell by the clovers sprouting out of my palm’s broken skin
How humourous that we cannot escape our traitorous bodies
The gods crow on the high 

I am sick.
I can tell by the ivy coiling mischievously around my ribs
And yet. 

And yet. 

I am sick.
Does illness take us all in the end?
I stare at a crack in the ceiling
And listen to the sand fall 

I am sick.
And all I can think about is you
The wildflowers crowning you victor
The tangerine sun tilting perpetually towards you 

I am sick.
But I trip through the Haze to find you
It is wicked, how you move in double time 

I am sick.
And the forest knows
The roses and ferns know I am now like them
I know, too 

I am sick.
But the smog lifts into a field
And you are there
Nearly strangled by a wayward vine 

I am sick.
But I can rest at last
In the wind and the roots
In fallen petals and creeping plants
Boundless as the crimson sky