I have read the passage of my dreams time and time again,
re-imagining the scenery with all the psychedelic colors of nature.
Its heavenly greenery calls to me,
and I wish to smother my face in it
-if only I could live on plush flora.
Petite waterfalls join together to ignite life over
a splendorous azure pond,
it calls to me like the symphonies of gods:
my escape.
The location of my whilom sanity;
My Eden, my Nirvana.
Oh…
The scents of so many flowers,
swirling around my nostrils,
play at the memory of my suburban years.
I imagine spreading out naked in this place,
letting the softness of the sun kiss my long-deprived pale cells.
I would build the world around this life defying beauty so I can share the total rake of pleasure it emits.
My Eden, my Nirvana.
I wonder if this is the material great poems are made of?
Did any great poet picture this very place of nature?
Then, with his immortal pen:
write the essence of beauty into his memories?
My Eden, my Nirvana:
a place of collected humidity;
billions of colors and unnatural possibilities.
I wish I could revisit a place so divine,
but I read on
and leave the absolutely magnetic sense-tingling recollection behind:
My Eden, my Nirvana.