Stumbling footsteps graced the earth,
Contorting the shrubbery under their weight,
Twisting the roots in their shallow graves.
All things ruined and changed,
Bar a single flower.
He plucks it from its sheath,
Revelling in the intricate swirls on its petals.
 
He falls back onto the sodden ground,
Marvelling in the phenomena before him.
The single intricate flower,
That survived his onslaught of steps.
 
‘I ought to place it by my ear’
He giggled to himself.
‘Or perhaps on my lapel’
He retorted to himself.
‘Either would be fashionable’
He replied. To himself.
 
He lay back on the bed of leaves,
Captured in the beauty of the petals.
Knowing full well he ought to stand,
Ought to remove himself from the floor,
But deciding it easier,
Simpler even,
To just lay there.
A single flower in his hand,
His worldly possession,
His only ownership.

The nurse pulls him from the floor,
Removing the toothpick from his fingers,
And leading him to the bed.
He feels the leaves fall from his back,
Leaving the wet outlines on his vest.
 
‘Our final concern for your father’
The doctor said to the woman before him,
‘Is his persistent hallucination…’