in summer sunsets I find the glowing
embers of your eyes
as if the poets and painters
gazed upon your irises in reference

the art sat for centuries before your date of birth
as if some prophecy
that roses could be pale as ice
with scathing tones and imbruing eyes to my forested mind

and one day we’ll become plants in the ground that fail to grow
we’ll lose our obsession with this meager life
we’ll cling onto nonexistence for eternity—departing from the idea of dimensions
and as deadly as Death is, life is deadlier