i talk to the wild plants growing
everywhere at my yards like feces
of black-eyed birds,
almost everywhere. and its scent
clinging firmly to the air, as
*****, rancid flowers
sewn to the fabrics enwrapping my mornings.
i wake up to this, with unchanged
clothes, heavy from cursed
nights that sigh of torrents
on my bed. i am all unwashed
body. and face. and hands,
walking outside devoid of miracles.
and there are plants with open mouths
everywhere that i pluck close
for a redemption.
a conversation. deep,
deep conversation,
nonstop.
my lips have held bagful
of dimming sunsets
i talk about each of them to the plants,
yet what i heard in return is only a lash,
beheading themselves,
one by one.
and each,
pecked by black
birds, hungry as my eyes.

–iluvia