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.
