Oh, Moon vine,
Always sleeping where you bud.
I knew you couldn't wake,
Too lost in your fantasy's of pallid dittany's.

Do you wish to be stirred one day,
Or would you prefer to dream forever?
To chase the void in longing disparity,
To live in your own mind eternally?

When you wilt do you think, Moon vine,
You'll keep dreaming?

Canines in her mouth, Tongue licking,
Sobs in my throat, Subtle pricking,

Though she was distant, I wanted nothing more than to hold her close,
Carding through fur, I was trying, pleading for the inmost,

Wanting to make my touch a tender thing,
Longing for her to tether over anything

I trusted her yet she writhed in my cradle,
Thrashing at fingers, soft as sable

When she clawed at my shoulder, hitting the carpet with a hiss and a thud
She left me with only fragile cuts embraced by the sheen of supple blood.

Crocus will continue to wilt and Shrivel in the nursery,
Its too late for the primula, necrose to clockworks decay,
Ghost of baby's breath can you please tell me,
What happened to your infancy?

The deer lies dead in snowdrops,
Naked and gored before the Copse,
Webbed innards, cradled by ghost petals,
Stewed infancy held close by Lamium nettles,

A gutted riffle wallows nearby,
An empty barrel, gunpowder palpable upon the sky,
Coughed up bullets, lain out in velvet grass,
Reeking of ripe saline, flesh and bloodied brass,

Rotted fawn rests, asleep in the forest,
Dried tears bleach her coat in premature rest,
Supple life bitterly sprawled in a crimson cruel quilting,
Embraced by lapping bellflowers, Hugged by only the wilting.