sensing tension the air was heavy with an invisible fog of unmistakable proportions. envisage a humid wet jungle, a handy hatchet would suffice; but not knowing the future, i only carry a pretty petite red swiss army knife.
straining to inhibit circuitous damage my bare brown feet kept bumping against the rotten corpse of phantom souls lying littered along the crowded empty room. seeking distraction i opened the door to a beautiful carved dusty armoire. meddling into a debris-filled subsistence the smallness within expanded as reality ripened into a glittering giant peach oozing with kismet. instantly encountering a pink polka-dot rest stop, cognition circled in merry-go-round motion.
if only normal came home i could rinse away the extraneous gypsy songs and horse-led covered coaches lit with a soft fire of midnight moon.
refreshed with jungle fever immunity, i strapped on fire engine red high heeled sandals glad to be heading home, soon sleeping in the safety of my own bed.
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mingling prompts: thommyg’s 3 Word Wednesday: corpse, damage, knife; michelle’s poefusion friday five: meddle, afterwards, debris, rinse, ripen; and, beverly’s pink saturday.
photo: Tin-can Telephone, flickr