The president of the horticulture club
thumbs the violet leaves of a aconite
ignoring the shooting pain crawling on her skin.
The other members glare at her,
waiting for the reaction-
touch the frail plant
and your mouth is sure to set on fire.
The contact she has on the flower
is insanely dangerous.
Potent alkaloids bloom overhead
and she continues to breathe in deeply as if she is trying to swallow
the strong, acrid taste of the atmosphere,
which should have sent her into a frenzy of disorientation
and seizures of her small limbs
but at last, she glances
at the frozen treasurer and spoke calmly, her mouth slouching,
"Are you writing this down?
I want the future of this club
to know to never touch plants
without doing their research."
Then she blinks,
slumps against the bench,
undeterred.

Silent as the cool night sky,
Yellow in the moonlight,
Time ticks past an hour,
Racing to the memories,
Slipping, sliding, standing still,
Laying on the floor,
Red as blood and soft as silk,
Kept alone, without,
Time ticks,
Slowly moving on.

Heavy meadows ran a lap around earth
And green faded (twisting) vines turned rabid and fire-fierce.
            
       (over)turned soil spit until venomous spires were conjugated o'er the horizon.

And I, grazing on the moon's lading glare (the scent of Aconitum napellus poisoning the air)
             Let myself drown in the smoke