She inhabits an empty, barren world,

filled with vibrant greens which ripple into

rust and violet and corn and maroon,

and bright sunshine that reflects starlight on

the wrinkling water, the cosmos captured

in a wave, a star caught in a droplet.

The daffodils on the bank, swaying

in the breeze flowing down from the mountains,

blown forth by Zephyrus, perched of the pass

between mighty peaks, snow-capped in winter,

attainable by those who dare to test

their skills, and return fulfilled, a story

to tell to all they meet when they return

Home. For those who may leave, it is a dream,

a glorious paradise, an Eden.

She walks along the grassy banks,

sees the daffodils and the waves

and the sky, mottled with clouds

like clumps of flour not yet folded

into cake batter, which she cooks mindlessly

and then eats the tastelessness mindlessly

for something to take her mind off the fact

that she lives in a world of colour

and all she sees is grey.