My heart started shrieking when she said love could not save us. “How else can you explain this?” I protested as I pulled my bleeding heart out of my hollow chest. “This old thing swears to be yours, and yours only” I said with a lump in my throat. “Here is my heart, it is fragile. Break it anyway, if you must.” I cried.

The flowers she picked for me still haunt me. “How cruel of her. To **** a blooming flower for a lover she soon will ****, softly” I thought, but my dancing heart did not agree with me. “Yield” Pleaded my heart. “Yield! Surender yourself to her”. And so I did.

The poet
of the night
closed her
eyes, and
dreamed of
little stars
as details
in the small
moment of
beauty she
beheld, as a
painting
once hidden,
now coming
alive before
her eyes, as
wondrous
as when
she had
first
met the
pages
of a book,
and held
them
more
dearest
than the
petals of
a flower
held close
to her
heart,
forever in
bloom.

You stare blankly at the ceiling
Unwilling to rise
Everyone has abandoned you
No respite from the silence
Your heart in shards
Like the vase you dropped
Last autumn
—some things shatter—


A buzz emits from beside you
Messages of a different variety
You have been abandoned by all, but one
Hello, you have not forsaken me
The shards of heart, mend
Form a kintsugi heart
Love flowers in the cracks
—some things bloom—

@toopragmaticbookworm

today, you may be a closed tulip. but as the minutes roll by, you will slowly blossom. the wind will kiss your petals, and the rain will startle you. the sun will warm you up, and the bees will seek you as a resting place. through it all, you will stretch your leaves toward the sky, and your seeds will sprout. you will brighten days, and you will continue the circle of life.

Permafrost can go
As deep as
2 miles into
The earth
Way down there
Are these plants
Still alive and
Waiting to be
Discovered or
Thawed out

There's all this
Living stuff
Underneath us
Just waiting to bloom

Upon the third resurrection the lower of three buds bloomed,
I say three buds, but there was also an attempt at a fourth,
but nothing that could be called an actual bud – more of a high blemish.

Upon the third resurrection, the bloom had kept its family colour,
a repeat of a pink shade of purple with a white heart, flaring wide
toward the light, shouting the promise
of further offspring -

the future promise of beauty visited to the third
and perhaps to the fourth generation.