Flowered Roots

When I was younger I used to walk through the flowered fields and chase the patterns of the roots that were ingrained in the soil. I used to blow on a rose and watch the bloodied pink petals flow into the aquamarine sky creating a tornado of dust and sickly sweet rose odour. When I was younger I traced the patterns on my body wondering where the veins led to, aching to burst them open and explore inside. My mind was filled with dreams of adulthood and legality; dreams that were too bright for a child. Now I am older and I sit and watch the roots of flowers pass through me, stretching me longer curving through each other until I begin to wish I was younger. Now I am older and my dreams are impossible realities with mountains and earthquakes blocking them until I am too blinded to see them anymore. I am older and I watch life pick at my petals, drowning them in a succulent swirl of chocolate and fire until the the daisies cease to grow. Now I am older and the moment I turn over, I see the roots that I tracked when I was a child grow out of my back to form those sweet roses I blew away.