silentsoliloquy

grotesque they bob up and down on poppy stems, the tiny garden of human heads shrunken and wise rocking in the wind, retiring behind apogean petals with the waking of the moon. Their obscene grins belie a muted death, cavernous sockets look down, dragged by gravity to a dew clean perspective of river polished stones, dredged and spread convoluted like a jeweled, multifaceted bed. They curtsy nod and bump asking in their own selfless way, can we take solace in a plethora of pebbles? and answer in the only possible way, with a question, what else is there?