We
fail to see it, an acidic goodbye, to produce tentacles.
Years
become tornados, to rinse out souls. I fell a voice,
to
plush pale eyes; and there’s for raspberries, African
daisies,
even a brook of California poppies. Oh for calla
lilies,
to symbol a pure nature, where cape primroses
ring
out trauma, to perish a sensitive soul. I loved unseen,
afraid
of mirrors, oblivious to shadows. There’s
carnations
adrift a pond to summons a gentle summer. I
knew
a flannel flower sorely haunted to forget me not.
We
foxed a glove to scribe a petal to ink a goose. We
fraught
an English bluebell with a sound of silence,
albeit,
sounds uttered evening primroses. Oh I drift, to
lean
upon an everlasting daisy, to escape a thought of
fireplants.
It was panic where arms embraced a lagoon of
daffodils:
drenched in dahlias, aflame in daisies, where
repercussions
sung a faint wind. I rose but a fraction, to
mourn
with Daphne, rinsed in day lilies. Oh for baby’s
breath,
aware not of scars for bee balm tensions.
