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.