the impressionist

grazing the tops of wild flowers.  
fingers do this  
in some sun-filled dream,  
some golden vale that i have never seen.  

when i open my eyes i see nothing.  
when i close my eyes i see you.  
don't bring me flowers.  
 
i see bubonic sky,  
white rib cage dripping red sinew.  
singing, yelling,  
screaming.  
 
head full of corpse.  
eyes like a pair of exit wounds  
in some sun-scorched dream,  
some burning vale that i have never seen.  
 
everything looked like monet.