Caelith pulsed in the starless seam,
No warmth, just orbit, cold with gleam.
“Equality is just a myth,” it sighed,
“And safety, merely a dreamleaf dried.
A lull to cradle wilt and thrall,
For leaves too tender yet to let fall.”

Then Lily laughed, a sound half-sung,
Like petals bruised but newly sprung.
"If truth decays in myths you spin,
We’ll plant our wound and bloom within.
From mulch of lies and roots opposed,
We will bloom not rose, but Pokenose".

Caelith stirred, its voice a flame
Of dust and law without a name.
“Try your might, bloom what you will
This is reality, cold and still.
Hope is a pollen that drifts, then dies
Order endures when dream defies.”

"Let's all get back to our home Nefarys'
where dreams aren't trimmed" said Iris
Past spindlefern and veiled ravine
They tread through fire tinted green.

In the center where petal circles close
They knelt where breath became the prose
Tulip brushed a thorn aside,
“Beauty’s truest when it won’t abide".
"Let this be seen," said Peonies, grave,
"A bloom unbent is twice as brave."
They placed it firm in woven light.
where scent alone confers the rite.

No voice was raised, but all could tell
Azure had steeped the air with spell.

Pokenose shimmered, slow to bloom,
A want once buried in Nefarys' womb.
Not born of thirst, but love of pain
It fed and fed on beauty's stain.

He looked at Rose not past, but through
And said, “What waits will change you too.”
She plucked out a petal and handed him.
It pulsed between the stem and rim.

Rose turned back with nothing said,
Her footsteps soft, like vows long shed.

Hence the petal breached and then it reached
A world where love lay bruised and breached.

A petalbreach chime unsettled Nefarys with woe
For gossip is in the veins of things that grow.

"She breached the bloom with no regret,
Unraveled law which our roots had set."
cried Tulip with an unflinching vowtorn ache.
Tearing right through her bloomroot's wake.

"If roots still matter and vows still bind,
Then Rose must face what she left in rind.”
Daffodil declared with her petals taut.
As Nefarys wilted in quite distraught.

They said, “If one may breach, then so shall we,
“Not with withering secrets, but unity.”
They all plucked themselves without a cry,
And sang a vow that split the sky.
"You left us rind, and now shall see
What stirs from shattered symmetry.”
And thus, was shown with blinding clarity—
The bloom-born wrath of majority.

They all circled Lotus, voices steeped in fret,
Which no bloom or blade had spoken yet.
“She’s not of the ring,” they said without sway,
“And what grows apart should not be asked to stay.”

Lotus did not smirk, nor cast a scroll,
He let their fears complete the role.
Then offered nothing but a phrase like tar:
"Your unity will take you all far.”

They all returned back to shaded plots
Grief coiled in them like tangled knots.
Their scent no longer stirred the mood,
Something sacred splintered in the wood.
Distance crept between the roots they shared,
And made them foes, their grace impaired.

Azure remained mute nor did he lift what fell,
even though he knew that wound too well.

Rose found Muir near the Scentfold's bend
Where winds keep secrets, they cannot lend.
Muir breeze retreated soft and slow
And tugged her thoughts in undertow.

“You long to leave, do you know the price?”
Asked Muir, his voice like cold-cut ice.
“I just want a glance,” Rose whispered low,
"The kind that names can't bear to know."

“Only one petal may pass the wind,
The rest stays bound to what you’ve been.”
Muir howled a long, unraveling cry,
as if the wind itself mourned the why.

Love?
Hope?
Faith?
All the same..
Do they exist?

Orpheus Listens to the Requiem of His Own Undoing  
                (after Leonard Kress)


Orpheus hears his songs played on broken strings,  
A dirge plucked soft by an old man with blight.  
He laughs at this fiasco, cringes as it rings,  
Echoes bending, whispering through trees at night.  

Behind him, nova bass lines swell and roll.  
He imagines the dancers weaving in a line,  
The wading birds now gone—silent in their toll,  
Their scattered iambs left to beachgoers’ time.  

He turns back—loses his time, theirs too.  
He pleads; time will not rewind for beggars.  
He cries; sorrow will not soften, nor undo.  
He sets his vision on a new career—foreteller.  

He fixes his fate, throwing his guitar,  
Its keys, its chords—all song surrendered to riptide’s pulse.

The tongue once lived in sweetest lands,
Where honey dripped like golden sands.
It danced through syrup, soft and wide,
With velvet dreams it could not hide.

Beneath the sky, a sugared sea,
Where flavors danced in harmony.
And every taste, and every sip,
Was joy that melted on the lip

Around it spoke of flavor rare,
Of something rich beyond compare.
“They call it truth,” the voices said,
“Then why’s it left so dark, unsaid?”

The tongue fell still, its sweetness thin,
An itch began to burn within.
“If there is more,” it thought, “I must
Let taste decide what I can trust.”

Curious now, the tongue grew bold,
To chase the myth the whispers told.
With trembling hope, it reached and tried
To sip what others left denied.

But what it found was not delight —
A taste that burned, a wound of bite.
The sugar fled, the silk was torn,
Its buds were seared, then split and torn

The sweetness slipped beyond its reach,
No golden drip to calm or breach.
What once was rich now felt so thin,
As bitterness crept deep within.

It searched again for something sweet,
But found no sugar it could meet.
Its buds, once soft with joy and light,
Now knew but ash and endless night.

The others watched but turned aside,
Their mouths still sweet, their comfort wide.
They offered nothing—not a sound—
Just stayed within their sugared ground.

It whispered low—no choice remained,
To taste the bitter that none had claimed.
Its sweetness gone, the wounds run deep,
Still must it sip—no rest, no sleep

She was busy counting wolves
conversing with crows
soft and white as a widow's linen.
They scoffed at her,
called her delicate,
only good for stew.
So she dug herself into stories,
buried beneath the noise
let them hunt after the myth of her,
never finding it.  
The forest swallowed her,
dried leaves and damp earth
scented with cinnamon
embracing her bones
in the hush of the underbrush.
She multiplied in silence
beneath the roots,
growing wild
through branches of wildflowers.
The thicket whispers a warning.
The hunters have gone missing,
and the doe-eyed jejune "varmint"
awakens whole, green with breath,
wild,
and never soft again.

He said my name like an oath.

I said his like a war cry.

We met in the ruins of reason,

and built something holier from chaos.


He wore the moon in his eyes;

silver light and tides that pulled me under.

I gave him the sun,

burned my hands just to keep him warm.


We weren't star-crossed,

we were conjured.

Some cruel myth breathed us alive,

then turned its back and laughed.


We stole time from the fates.

Danced in Hades’ garden,

bathed in river Styx,

stuck out our tongues

as the gods crossed their arms.

He held my soul in his teeth

like a prayer too sacred to swallow.


And when the sky cracked,

we didn’t flinch.

We were the storm and the silence,

the prophecy and the curse.


Let the poets argue if it was love.

Let the priests deny it with trembling hands.

Let the world remember -

we are unforgiven

for making the heavens jealous.