Gloomy Morning in A Wet Meadow

I am changing with the season, with the rain and the wind, with the tides of tedious days. I hear myself repeating myself, talking over the voice in my head, climbing through the trenches of love. I said I wasn't going to give up. I went forward, into the blackness of the morning as the sky turned white and washed the colour out. I stood there, by the flowing water, looking for the answers, but all I found was a vagary in my thought process. When I kicked rocks, when I picked snails from the blue jump, words with no meaning fell from the radio mouth. Wine spilled, rolled out from the brown earth. Clouds over the strawberry fields. I seen my past alive in the mother plant, running from blinding headaches where the orange lied. The blades are deformed teeth, warped in the helix, in the cities made out of tears, in the salt marshes where butterflies live on electricity. The sunlight is pointing at me, reflecting on my skin, grasping at every breath. I smile when the rain stops. I sigh when the cycle begins again and I get lost in the pulp of the fog where the night unfolds and I melt like I am ice cream.