On a vine grew the loudest tiny flower ever to grow, Glowing blood-orange in the yellow day’s sun, It sprung from the brightest green stem Like an old victrola horn into little Powdery pistolas firing from the center, piercing ears
Like sound. Inside out along the walls of The horn shaped a star that daydreamed of first kisses Dismissive with bliss, or the first feet to ever Leave their heavy prints on the cold blue surface of the moon. On a vine grew the loudest tiny flower ever to grow.