I sat with my hands
On this awkward holly leaf
Forcing its yellow-green spikes to pierce flesh

Passing my fingers
Over the points so pretend real
Peeling off each limb one by one to make it ordinary

Reading the tombstones
All lined up in morgue fashion
Imagining those souls who were one day transformed

Into stone-carved letters
Names and dates and flowers
Slowly lessening visits from moved-on people

Who try not to think
Of their own temporary selves
As ticking timebombs testing every limit until one day

I walk diagonal
Accross the road to the redness
That catches my eye filling my head with metaphors

Those church wine petals
Scent as sweet as the Eucharist
Having been inside for so long I am drunk on the sight

I am born again
Brushing against plants for contact
Suddenly noticing the life energy contained within them