See those lotus palisades,
They rise from the earth,
Like plant stems,
As they rise from the soil.
Perfect slices,
Creative crevices,
With plumage resting in serenity.
They wait for eyes to feast,
To sedate their imagination’s hunger,
Which starves in the urban towers of the modern world.
I stare over the edge,
I can see myself jumping.
I feel the tug of gravity,
With the plunge,
It pulls on my body.
My spine disintegrates.
I charge; I glide through the sky.
The tips of my fingers touch,
Feeling the rock’s edge.
I grasp, the rest of my body descends,
Swinging, banging, into the rocks below.
The weight jars, tugs, at my wrists.
The toes dig in, the feet dig in.
The perfect equilibrium on the palisades.
Directly above, there lies a patch of grass,
Resting on the top of these cliffs.
After agony, climbing, sweating,
I could relax in the grass.
A picnic on the peak of the lotus palisades.
Such a meal for ages,
To remember for days.
No matter the wine, the bread, the dumpling, or the fry.
To dine would be to die for.
To relax would be worth it,
To try for.