Wrote the following while tripping on Ambien 36,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean. Found it in a journal a few days later; no memory of writing it.
Think of a town,
A small Medieval town,
Where the villagers are depressed,
And dressed
Mainly in brown.
Now outside this town
In a vast unkempt field
Lies a young lady;
A mistress,
A princess;
Some soft dirt on which she's kneeled.
She cries out her heart,
For her lover is dead,
And she will never wear a crown;
Her frown
Channels the tears from her head.
Her king had dies,
Who promised her it all,
Now the villagers' scorns
While she mourns;
How quickly death doth fall.
But oh how she loved that king,
Their love was without bound,
And soon together they'd be,
If she,
Could eat the hemlock she'd found.
If she did not end it now,
The villagers will tear her asunder;
So the poison she eats,
And soon the beats
Of her heart cease their fragile wonder.
As she's laying in the field,
Waiting for her demise,
A blue flower she'd suppose,
A rose,
Blossoms before her eyes.
Others say it's just a story,
The fact is,
And it's true,
A blue
Rose grows there in all its glory.
Many decades have passed,
And the town is now a city,
But now it is known,
And overgrown
By a rose bush so large and prickly.
And over in the field,
Where the young maiden lay,
A mountain has come;
For some,
Insurmountable they say.
The scale of the mountain,
1 mile wide and 1 mile high,
By many to climb have tried,
And died,
And the rest just lie.
You see when the princess dies,
She vowed to return
With her love in hand;
And,
Live forever more.
Hundreds of years have passed,
And all can see the rose on top,
But no one will seek it,
They think it,
Quite the inconvenience and stop.
You see if anyone did manage
To pick the flower on high,
They would find their mate,
And wait,
With them until eternity's nigh.
Still no one will risk the venture,
To climb that mountain of strife,
Even though,
They know,
It would lead to everlasting life.
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