Bed of roses

A sort of sickly elf wondered,

‘Where is my mind?’

His ribs poked through

And his harem pants were a size too big.

Troublesome tiny goldfish in his hair

Whispered to him

‘Where is your mind?’

So he searched.

Wet webbed hands grasped at backyard weeds,

Was it buried in soil?

Or trapped in a rosebud?

Where was his mind?

Until strains of a French song,

And the shuffle of tiny feet

Struck his eardrums.

Had he found his mind?

Swirling in pink brain mush,

Of happy hallucinations.

Thorny long stemmed ladies murmured in his arms,

‘This is your mind.’