"rafflesia" poems
I never thought
I would've locked away a flower.
I never thought I would
Trap such a beautiful creature of nature.
The humongous red petals
Stained with water,
Attracting such a wide diversity of insects.
I had always believed that
Gorgeous things should be set free,
So it could live to it's fullest.
Spread out wide in the open.
And so,
I never thought
I would've locked away a flower.
Yet my marvelous mind encaged a
Beautiful beast,
An imperfectly perfect plant.
Locked it away for years and
Hid it so deep in captivity that
I could never have found it
And I would never have found it
Until now.
Years and years and years on,
Since the flower did first bloom,
It's scent has finally found me and
So did Understanding.
The pungent stench that
Reeked from the Rafflesia,
It slowly seeps into the present
Drowning the pretty world with
Pests meant to pollinate it's seed.
The truly gorgeous flowers slowly
Wilt away as
Evil
Ovethrows
Everything.
I once locked up a memory so tight
I never ever found it,
But in the recent days,
It came slowly
Then like a tidal wave:
Crashed down on me.
The shame just filling my heart.
Killing the not even alive.
I never thought
I would've locked up a flower.
But now I wish I'd locked it back up.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
Rafflesia god,
nestled deep inside my skull,
Friend to my hatred.
Full of hell I am
scorched by brimstone. I
am blackened again.
Unable to leave
my bed of molten flames
static blankets me.
I lie here hoping
that you will burn out some day,
Rafflesia god.
Flames crawl inside
searching for your ugly face
but no face to find.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Dripping with wild rafflesia, our home's halls reek,
As she walks, the stench interlaces with her, thick, fetid and bleak,
She reaches the dead-end, bringing the corpse lily to her lips,
I lurch an arm, but she's too far from my fingertips,
Now all I can do is watch as her teeth slowly, slowly, gnaw,
I'm there while her skin wrinkles like lapping sewage at shore,
Petals seep from her mouth in ****** clumps, gathering at the fold,
The dulcet caress of chewed flora blot her chin like gilded mould,
Her coughing tethers to the tantalizing ticks of the kitchen clock,
With no choice but to watch on, I stay until the final tock.
Dec 14, 2024
Dec 14, 2024 at 4:43 AM UTC
Woody vine’s poor friend
Gave all up for Beauteous end.
Nature’s investment.
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 3:10 AM UTC