Rooted to the spot.

The feeling is like you’re trembling without moving. Your feet are rooted to the ground like earth beneath them is shaking. You’re still. The earth is still. Yet, all seems to shudder, bend and fold. Feet planted firmly feel they will fall.

Flashes of vivid light, breaches of Technicolor, lightning jagged rays and strobes penetrate darkness. There’s no light but for moments night becomes day. A lightning storm without clouds.

Thunderous calamity like a dozen orchestras each competing to be heard at a rock festival. For a moment the noise ends. Just as suddenly it envelopes and surrounds all. Whistling wind rips apart into a treacherous typhoon. Yet, it is silent. Absolutely hushed.

Rotten roses mix with sweet garlic and freshly chopped onions. They join lavender, mint and thyme in a coriander sauce gently dipped into sticky runny melted honey. Although absence of olfactory senses does not allow this. There’s nothing at all.

On the tongue a smattering of rich sweet tastes, twists in and out of salted sour lemon infusions with the tastes of childhood favourites abound. Of course the mouth is closed and salivation long gone. No tastes present.

This is death.

Wishes tied to the wind.

A prayer for the fairy sits in the wind;
From my whispers the words are thinned.

She floats on high waiting for its arrival;
What the prayer speaks could be truth or survival.

Only when it arrives to her glow;
will she know, and so go, on to the great show.

Wishes you’ll be here with me; give joy to melody.

Wishes we can share song pleasure of song; throughout the day, night and all along.

Wishes you will want my words and self; bringing days, weeks, months and years of health.

A wish is a terrible thing to waste; so here it goes without haste.

The breeze sails after light dimmed; wishes tied to the wind.