Her name was petunia
She had hair the color of twilight settling after a hurricane and irises darker than the moon
Her smile was the crescent that the stars sung for
her fingers as dainty as China ware on the finest plates
Shy as werewolves howling for comfort
and brave as the wind dusting the horizon
She never did understand why her mother named her after something as petite as a flower
She couldn't understand her own beauty

Daisy; nose as freckled as the beach is sandy
Wrists as worn as the pages of a librarians favorite book
Sundays sunny as the sunflowers she wore on her church dress
inconspicuous was the boy she held hands with under the pews
Hated her parents for her wretched name
she murmured between kisses with the preachers son
the devil himself wasn't a flower, but a ****
Took her life the day he was baptized
A flowers life is not the life for me, said daisy

Rose
The beautiful of the most
with red lies that'd set your heart to flames
She'd burn down every field
and ***** every finger of those who kissed her lips
Ivory skin of leaves so green
envious of those who weren't picked,  and pitied, and deprived of their innocence and privacy
Just because fate handed her the life of lust and friends of petunias and Daisy's who never made the cut

A desolate dying star
      burns bright
Hot is its surface
    Warming the night

Dence is its mass
As it pulls at the stars
Orbiting around it
Self conscious of scars

The white dwarfs watched
Listened and learned
As the dying star taught
Of a death well earned

Amongst dwarfs and novas
The star radiated wisdom
Passing down secrets
Until it's implosion

   Sinking
        Into
  The fabric
       Of space

Leaving
    A dark black hole

Pulling at the stars
    Still burning bright

The continuum
    Holds its soul

We wander,
beneath the dotted sky,
  the moon illuminates the forest
   of grandfather trees
    beneath our bare feet;
     soft, dewy grass
      and various dampened, scattered leaves.
      
        The still holds, warming spring moisture
          with a faint reminder of this brutal past winter
            with hungry eyes, streets with old, ashy faces pry
              the fog floods all gutters and highways tonight
                it's like navigating through a black hole
                  you have given forth no light
                     &
                       tell
                          me
                          how
                           ­       am I
                                        supposed
                                                  to see
                                                      without­
                                                                ­ any
                                                             ­          insight?

I call her Moon.
              Why, you ask?
Because she is light
     when my nights are heavy.

r ~ 4/24/14