from the dank mud up
flower small on top
oh so beautiful

13/9/22


black the soil
black the stone
black the grass

black the fruit
black the sepal
black the seed

black the thorn
black the petal
black the leaf

black the eye
black the breath

black the dye
black the flesh

there's a dead rose that
grows in my garden



@writeweird

The Lonely Flower

She stands so elegantly tall, but she stands alone,
No one else besides me would take notice, because I know how it feels to be lonely all too well.

I shall plant seeds at her feet,
Then she can stand proud,
Now knowing
all will look up to her.

Cries of a wolf—howling in the
burns of a shadowy night. Preying eyes,
seeking, pouncing to hunt you out my dear.
Chasing love, or rather being chased by love
behind a trail of youthful winds. At the time
we still could count the scars on our knees.

Seems we've barely got skins holding solid
on our bones. Time is a she-wolf feasting on
once was youth. Her sharp tooth digs into my
eyes—gnawing my ability of sight.

I'm haunted by the long nights; seeming longer
if you're unsure you'd wake in the morning.
Death is a mistress of non screaming echoes,
but a peaceful whisper of her calling. She knocks
at the door of my cold feet; a deathbed unlike
no other rest to your eyes. (It's subtle goodbye)

But a longest night, makes expectancy of the day
brighter than it's tomorrow. But a few extra hours
is never what we'll borrow—still the hours of
wisdom we left behind is hoped to follow.
To let new things grow in the rises of one's
written experience, as the story of a Morn' flower.

I will die alone
as a collection of books
abandoned on an old cupboard,
as a display in all kinds of libraries,
and only some people understand,
but fewer of which we can possibly count as good memories in writings,
even as poetry.

I will die alone,
and remember all forms of joy the latter, as a creature that ever lived,
as a flower which will not bloom again beautifully in the same place.

give me that mashmellow
i like how u so narrow
moist shimmering on pulpy skin
your attitude so mellow
your my favorite kind of gin
as radiant and lush as a mallow

maybe it was the thing called “love”
—like a flower
that grew well;
surely, it won’t last forever

I dream as a flower,
opening in waves
as the pages of a book,
I bloom between dreams
and reality while in
sips of tea, the people
who walk past, they too,
are beings of water in the oceans of
the mind and are visitors of the earth,
stars are in the words they speak
within the the ease of the midnight hour,
the propeller seeds lift for the moon in
the eyes they held for one another,
the depth in the quiet longing
and the secrets of love lead
I, the writer, in my wish to sing, “all the
unsung is, by the sight
of the heart, sung forever”,
so then, all the things
they behold become
as they are, wondrous.

It's a much sweeter today
than yesterday indeed.
Radiant meadows are on fire
beneath the trees
indulging blue fairies'
summer bowl of sun shines
abundantly overflowing
lavishly enough to render in
every rose of humming bees.

Pop up to flowers and bouquets
maybe the song on the birds' lips:
Time is today to jump in
on a London summer clement scene!

Exerting true power
I bloom
Into the flower
Of the present.