Standing Alone in a Field of Trampled Tulips

Once a year...
I'm selected by my peers  
to stand in a field  
of brutally trampled tulips  
 
a smell of death...decay  
of the blossoms is putrid  
the acrid scent of their perfume  
rises from their flowerbed  
 
where I am left to stand..sentry  
like a scarecrow, gazing wide-eyed  
while on fallow grounds, slumbering  
petals yawn beneath my feet...a somber tone  
 
O'the sound of a harp, O' the melody  
how it drifts in, as I stand motionless  
amongst their brutal colors,  
and maskless faces, tracing my mouth  
with a parched tongue...
 
I could run to the pub, for a pint  
the tulips wouldn't miss me, the ghosts  
would settle without me standing stock still  
Right...one foot slightly shifts over the sleeping  
earth...that is when I heard crying..
 
I dare not look, but I could feel the cold  
of her breath on the nape of my neck  
her teardrops streamed down, her cheeks  
as she grasped my hand, Stay still...
for the love of God...stay still...
 
she looked into my eyes, coldly  
leaning in to kiss my two lips..with ghostly bliss
she would have my essence...
 
I should of stood still...