In the early dawn
A shout is seen
As the moon is falling,
Tawny birds blithely dart
In the scarlet tangles
Of your heart, always escape
Yet never so parading past
The topped prime colours
Of bleeding eyes uncovered,
All the fields and clearing
Woods have cordoned
Your glorious boundaries,
In the knotted, noble trials
Of briar and serrated leaf,
Green trails ply angled thorns
Leading to one bloody crown.
She paints her skin to paint out the world.
Daisies for death. Lilies for lost loves. Angels for their human opposites.
Each picture tells a story.
And, if she really likes it, or she really hurts, she gets it inked.
Sneaks away to some hole-in-a-wall joint with grimy windows and Pink Floyd playing.
Lets a gauged and gaunt 30-something shove needles into her soft flesh as she stiffens at the pain.
And then she relaxes as the story comes together.
The red of the petals- his lips, full of honey and lies.
The curve of the stem- her back, shapely and sinful.
The hidden thorns- what she didn't see until too late.
Let the wannabe rockstar scoff at her simplicity.
She knew where she'd been.
And she knew she'd never go back.
There is something that needs
to be dedicated to the beauty
pictured within: the effervescent and wild
youth dancing in the rain
of your heart. Alone and free,
buy yourself a single flower.
Watch it bloom in its impermanence
and keep it until
there is no colour left
because you never want it
to stop singing with its clean beauty.
Appreciate its life and decay
and allow yourself to be happy
because of the beautiful colourless flower
you sought out to be alive with.
The doorbell rings,
The children run,
Within this spring
I find you in my veins.
You were born as a flower bud.
Between the sporadic light.
In cool autumn
Of sad leaves,
In the plain of the months,
I can not stop thinking about you.
Splattered by blood
Of eternal dreams.
Look at me one more time,
Raise the leaves,
That resonate in your wood.
You, my love, are the fleur-de-lis.
The offspring of innocence
The embodiment of purity
Silk are your eyes
For they look on with such suppleness
The lustre of your soul is reflected through those windows
Fair is your heart
For it reverberates much passion
Much tenderness; much hope
It loves profound
With the suave movements of your heartbeat
Another tender petal falls
A touch softer than a summer's evening breeze
Warmer than early morning's first rays
More comforting than a new-born's first motherly embrace
A touch more hauntingly beautiful than nature's grace
Une petite fleur, merveilleuse et vraie
Fragrance of divinity
Constantly blooming; forever beguiling
You, my darling, are the fleur-de-lis.
Fear is a vine that beats down across my back, leaving uneven lines and parallel marks.
Is it always the prettiest flowers that become the most deadly? You’re poisonous to the touch.
All that calms me is all that fails to bring me happiness. Your jasmine scented perfume only reminds me of a love left unanswered; of a bird too scared to lift its wings and try out flight.
Maybe I would like the cold when I wake up, a thick shield of darkness to cover up and hide the person who I was never strong enough to be.
You’ll look me in the eyes when you tell me that it’s too hard to love me. Those oceans will be replaced with dull, empty ponds but you’ll mean every word, you’ll speak as if getting it off your chest will make the sun come back.
I'm the kind of flower
that grows out of concrete,
but with one look,
I appear just like a weed.
I've got a reinforced stem
and a will to burst through the cracks;
I don't wilt without water,
and I refuse to cut back.
I grow in adversity,
under the shade, in the dust,
in the hard rock pressing against
my roots, when it's rough;
but I'm not some simple dandelion
waiting for grubby hands to rip from the dirt,
I'm a flower, not a weed,
I cannot be deterred.