Glorious

A floral heaven.

Morning Glories. 

Too bright, the sunshine that burns the eyes. 

Glorious is another word for fire that burns from the outside to the inside and shows the bones of what we are. 

There we bask in the dream as the warmth surrounds as the buzz of bees in the summer. 

Glorious it is, until we cannot tell if it is real. 

If we are real. 

For maybe we are living or lost in a field of blazing beauty that stretches from horizon to horizon.

Calm we lay and look up at the azure sky and wonder why, with all this fire in our hearts we still are unconsumed.

Perhaps we are.  

Perhaps the flame has eaten away everything that was or could have been.

Now looking up is nothing but a flame that burns the field of posies.  A fire full of eyes that see and ears that hear.

All that remains of who we were is ash to feed new life.

We have become the fire.

As we change and as we burn, so does this field of our dreams until there is nothing left.

Still there is.

An endless sea of ebony.

Samantha Jayne Frost