If the blooming flowers can play melody,
Mornings would dawn with fragrant tunes wildly;
Fragrant flowers could tame the noses,  
Weary of sick would vanish sans sources;
Tunes of flowers would capture the ears,
Days bloom as the melody hears;
Blooming flowers spread the love with scent,
Glowing flowers would shred the weary sans hint.

Underneath a sun baked deck in San Jose
A flower was born.
Sun dappled, it unfurled its small green hands toward the lawn where
Globes of water still sat on the shoulders
Of green grasses to catch a glimpse of the sky,
who's cool breath had so recently whispered them into being.

Every day, as the sun peeked through the
Slats of gray wooden decay, the focus of it's impeccably golden eye would enevitably fall upon the delicate petals of a small blue flower.

Where had it come from, such a flower? Fallen out of its sleeve on the way to the garden? Had it been blown astray in one big gust? Where were the other flowers then?

They are gone. The Partridges disbanded long ago and left in their place a corpse
of tortured cedar, concrete, and angry hot metal. All now home to one small blue flower, who dances whenever given the chance in the spotlight of it all.

I only tell you this because because I watched that flower die this summer. After a gaggle of men pealed back the carcass-home, a flood of light came tumbling down upon all that had unknowingly benefitted from its protection, mostly weeds.

I should say, the lawn was the first to fall, well before the house itself, though it fought valiantly.
Hoisting its mystical morning globes skyward, like an offering. Golden death still spread like a flood across the lawn, catching every unshaded corner until all was bleached and unremarkable to look upon.

I remember how odd it must've looked, one blue flower shooting up from the grey mounds and yellowed grasses. How excited I was to see something so small and beautiful set free. How long I lingered there waiting for it to die.

I have a Dream,
I see myself in a rose garden,
Dancing to my beloved music,
I see the jazzy birds and butterflies
dancing with me too,
Their colours lure me,
I have a Dream,
I finally have the lust for life,
I see myself celebrate living,
As a festival,
Lighting the sparkling firecrackers,
bright, 'cause they're looking
for hope in the dark night,
And I was on cloud nine,
Like it's the only thing I want forever,
I want the time to stop forever,
'Cause I felt like a Queen,
I have a Dream,
I paint the world in my favourite shades,
Violet, blue and black,
I paint it red too,
And I see the reddening,
As the only way I could
Be a part,
Of the art,
I have a Dream,
I was the most beautiful,
beauty queen,
Shining bright as the brightest
and the prettiest star,
The night was my bestest friend,
But the dark was gone,
I illuminated,
I felt more alive,
I have a Dream,
I see the world changing,
I see myself being a part
Of that change,
I saw the awakening,
From dawn till the dusk,
It lasted,
It was just a dream,
I have a dream,
My poetry had got a soul
And a life,
The words got wings,
And it started living,
Through everyone,
It contributed a small change,
However so short,
made a being think,
I have a Dream,
I see myself with each and every thing,
That I've always wanted and wished for,
I saw that I felt so serene,
With the things I never had,
And maybe won't ever have,
Then I looked at the ocean,
Oh, how I move so fast,
Out of the black,
Into it's blue,
Diving deep down,
Till I just drown,
So deep I can't make my way up to the top,
But the top,
It was just an illusion,
I have a Dream,
But, now I see my dreams,
Turn to a Nightmare,
My rose garden was set to fire,
My life lost all its lustre,
I tried to paint the world,
But the world is so colossal,
My colours fall short,
And I was never
a part of the art,
The world changed,
Leaving me behind,
I always kept drowning in the ocean
Of unethical ecstasy and fantasy,
I have a Dream,
I want the nightmares to stop.
🖤

Braid the broken strands ‘till it’s like they’re meant to be there,
hold yourself together like you never fell apart—
rip at all your seams ‘cause you hate feeling fragile,
rather be a broken bone than a spindly work of art.

Biro the brave heart,
liberated the wasted words,
that layed lifeless on the rippled land of paper,
imprisoned and not found.

Words that have been fed with feeble fever,
swollen from the neglect injected into its letter limbs.
Neglect from the puzzle prime minister.

But biro the brave heart pen,
together with the motion from his noble ‘hand’ steed,
slowly walking around each word,
in a captivating circle,
made out of incentive ink.

The circle of meaningful medicine,
that cures the words emptiness,
and installs a ventilator
so, it can breathe value.

Words that are ready to breathe value,
the words I am looking for so,
that my figure of speech is finally alive.

Justine Louisy

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