CLIFT

I will swan dive from here. I will sit on this rock and touch the tops of pine trees. Moist, poking through my gloves. They are from Right Aid and I cut the tops of them off. The leaves reach for the sun. There's nowhere to go at the top of the tree. The orange runs out. Too small for me to chop down and use for firewood. In the cup of the valley I will fly. The mist will embrace me like my long lost mother. I will feel a warm and a buzzing throughout my mind. The sun broadens, yellow, white/yellow. The busom of the mountain valley nurtures and warms. I will float suspended between mountain ridges. Float through air. It's wide enough to sustain. I will hide under the rocks. The black part. So high my feet tingle. The higher I go, the closer I get to God. I will not go back because I see yellows, oranges, and reds and thousands of tree tops. They have dusty matted bottoms, places where grass does not grow. Scattered animal tracks have disrupted the random distribution of twigs and pine needles. I pick them up and hold them to my nose. They smell sharp, they smell like home. They smell like the Clems and moistened windows. I smell bread. Help me to get well, gimmesomemorepills, come and help.