I was dreaming for hours
walking in harvested fields of grey.
I saw a farm house in the distance,
the only thing for miles.
As I approach,
I could barely hear her singing
for it was soft and pleasant
among the loud howling winds
in a late october day.
She wore a floral dress and
a vintage summer hat,
on her knees stabbing the
ground with her trowel,
tending to the screaming
naked human flowers.
I didn't know until it was too late,
by then, the gardener stabbed wildly,
turned her head to me in an impossible way,
Looking at me. Staring at me.
She slowly raised from the molded ground,
her bare feet shifting into the rotten dirt,
as the little humans are trampled
further and further into the blacken earth.
I was yelling for help when
she started to stab me,
but I am in the middle of nowhere.
There's nothing but loud howling winds
among the planted garden of
rotten blood and muffled flowers.
