I am the acantha bud
with a rootless stem.

Suspended, wet flesh.

Not planted; placed

on an exhausted window sill.

Catatonic:
in vase.

I live in this old room.

Exact: I do not live here.
I am waiting.
Spackled layers and many coats of paint.

Ill-concealed cracks.
Walls that still attempt
a proud face.

My stem aches from holding

this pose.

And the legs of the bed ache in anticipation.

Passing in private anguish.

I think the room is ignoring me and

I sense that the crowing walls yearn
to weep.

I'd like to burst into 1,000 velvet thorns.
To feel the stretch of my life on full display.

Streaks of sunlight beckon a burgeoning future,
but my flower never finds spring.

A stillborn bit of matter.

Months pass on this sill of ruin.

My once sturdy base,

drops my wilted stem,
and my fragile vase.

Shattered bits and splinters.

At last! a new pattern on
the snoring carpet.

I am the vagrant acantha
with a rootless stem.
But you could house all of my existence.

You, the body of infinite sympathies.
A cherished vessel.

Exact: You could house all of existence.

But my infinite oblivion
left you lost and fragmented,
like the shards of

my face.