Bending towards the sun,
my wildflowers open,
and my fruits sweetly ripen.
The sunlight on my garden looks nice,
but the roots underneath are tangled
and choking each other dead.
My petals dance along the shore,
emancipating themselves with the wind,
as their cumulative beauty is dying.
I’m falling apart and unraveling,
the cohesion dissipates,
and my stems are left exposed.
Magnified by your light,
the sun that once pulled me up,
is setting my garden on fire.
Fueled by my extended drought,
and my failure to keep up with the weeds,
I’m burning fast; I’m burning bright.
My roots once around each other’s necks,
shrivel from the blackening smoke-
I’m letting go of my hold on myself.
Sparks fly between us,
brightening my internal darkness,
as your light rays ignite me.
But through this thickening layer of smoke
and this hazy, burning lens,
I am still able to see clear.
With clarity I ask you,
come closer to my flames-
for I cannot burn you.
It’s too cold out to catch.
It’s too cold out to ignite you.
Too cold, too cold.
