I am a limp rose, wind effaces me.
Cold-blooded mothers scantily sustain
indolent gems, suffocating beauties--
wind divulging their endless cravings, restrained
such an antidote, subduing manic
tendencies. my gleam of light, cast upon
the brilliant garden's whirl of panic
placid uproar: she is here, I am gone.
she only wanted to lie face down in
the charcoal chasm, that was once our
river, while wind restored her chalky skin.
vines grow through her, transforming overnight
into delicate flowers. her slumber is perfectly
serene. I listen to her wavering breaths. she
taunts me to pick the roses
even through her death.