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.

Baby's breath kisses the merlot tide of disease,
A brindled sea holds the white orchid of blanched dittany's.

Moonflowers scintillate with each cradle of dusk,
While Stars marl the sky, veiling over in cosmic musk.

During quietude, swans tread the ichor in a pearlesque flotilla,
The poison ripples beneath them as they thread between silk lilies and ivory scilla.

The gore strewn water continues to fester with pulsating, ripe, bile,
Despite all, the huddle of infancy will remain ever fertile.

To me, you'll always be a burgeoning carnation beside withered tulips,
You never fail to shield me like how the moon stitches itself to the sun in a solar eclipse.

I want to do the same for you, but don't know how to mend anything when the seams of your tapestry brittle,
I can't embroider, nor can I sew but if it's for you, I'll try, little by little,

If you'll let my thread pass your torn fabric, I promise to tend as well as I can,
Even if my fingers become indigo with tedium, I'll intertwine with all I am.

Silken heart of the purest fragility,
Luminescent in ebony, but still supple with tranquillity.

I'd like to be the same for you, but I don't know how to be anything more than bitter candlelight,
I can't give the lustre you need, but I'll try, in hopes one day I might,

If one dusk, I'm even a flitter more to you than a *** of wax sat on your windowsill,
If that ever happens, to give you light, I'll perch forever content, without an Until.

Dripping with wild rafflesia, our home's halls reek,
As she walks, the stench interlaces with her, thick, fetid and bleak,

She reaches the dead-end, bringing the corpse lily to her lips,
I lurch an arm, but she's too far from my fingertips,

Now all I can do is watch as her teeth slowly, slowly, gnaw,
I'm there while her skin wrinkles like lapping sewage at shore,

Petals seep from her mouth in ****** clumps, gathering at the fold,
The dulcet caress of chewed flora blot her chin like gilded mould,

Her coughing tethers to the tantalizing ticks of the kitchen clock,
With no choice but to watch on, I stay until the final tock.

Disassociating in the ebony mirage,
I called your name, knee deep in that tender visage,

You didn't answer, so I sung to the fireflies at my windowsill,
I kept crooning, but I knew they never really cared for my fill,

Serenading until my throat was limp and hoarse,
I left it bruised indigo with mellifluous force,

By both the luminescent bugs and the Empyrean sky,
My ballad was left, bound and dry.

A sagging Gladius wallows inside me, limply,
It's rotting in its own wretched flaccidity,

I see others around me nurturing bounds of fruitful irises,
Some even mother sycamore, burgeoning with vigour, effortless as chaste kisses,

Tender fertilizer blots my chin in a bloodied marling,
I ingest the stolen soil, even when I feel the white sting of my innards' snarling,

So I'll inject myself with litres upon litres of putrid compost,
Only for my gladius to continuing shrivelling within my innermost,

It's stem-deep in nutrients, and is none the less decayed,
Atop the valley, even in the passing June, it stays, wilted withered and frayed,

Now, all I'm left with is the curdle of wetland moss festering in my blood,
Weighted with this fetidity, I let my gladius go, dead, in peace and clotted mud.

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.

I felt the sting of nightshade bubble up inside me,
Once more, I cough up the bloodied Solanaceae.

Purged into my lap, budding with flesh,
Pallid petals ripe with Persian plum mottle, gored and fresh.

Racking my body in waves of herbaceous excruciation,
Crawling up my throat, clawing in botanical mutilation.

Lain out on the creased stone,
My macabre of a garden is blotted with the watercolour of my own.

Weary from retching, I stare at my withering ***** with distain,
I shrivel internally at the burden of mopping each and every stewed stain.

But I know I must clean the mess I've forged,
Because its nobody apart from me, who impulsively gorged.

Impale and gut me until I cough up the last of my wilting pansies,
Hack at the bark of my bones until they cease,

If need be, I'll listen to each word of your tirade,
Let my body take the blows to suffice yours with aid,

I'll let your sirens song of projection take me, full force,
Yes, I'm aware, it'll only end in the crucifixion of my walking corpse,

Indulge in mutilating me with the bullets of your throat,
I'll smile, looking down the barrel, even if the pistol of your tongue is no gloat,

Even when each sentence tears my tendons, I'll gladly let it lurch deeper into my innards,
I'll welcome a stream of crimson when my organs still sob blood afterwards,

I'll make space for the landfill in the core of my vessel,
If it makes you content, I'll plant your anguish in my soil, let it nestle,

Rips in my neck, I still I want you, have your sanctuary,
Rot the embers of my heart, you'll finally get your fantasy,

Don't shed worry for me,
It never hurt.