I woke up with an aftertaste of stars,
on green fragrant grass.
The aroma worked better than coffee.
The view, better than the Scotland hilltops.
I was too engulfed in the moment to care where I was,
All I did was walk towards a strangely lit tower.
Mysterious it was.
Sometimes it seemed far away,
and yet sometimes at the foot of the next tower.
The hills seemed like solid waves,
Ups and downs,
some steep and some gradient.
The water tasted different on each hill.
I was more aware of my surroundings with the each passing hill,
The clouds roaring louder,
The birds changing course,
For better and for worse.
I felt weaker with every footstep.
Now it was night.
No stars, no breeze.
A strong stench of burning,
Grey textured swamp replaced the ground beneath.
I drowned in the swamp,
Full of fear,
cut off from the path.
Woke up with an aftertaste of cigarettes,
At the foot of the tower,
At the end of my life journey of green hills and ash heaps.