The windowsill is badly placed; the sun
cannot indulge the speckled flowers. Catch
a ray, my little wilters, hatch
(in some enobled way, you vital ones)
your ancient plan. A blueprint known to man
and woman, aged notions often used
like: getting, knowing, owning, holding. Mused
by scanty winds atop a skyfull.
                               Scan
the skies for faintest glimmers, something clued
inside the trees. But know the placid breeze
has never been against you. Don't fall, please,
into forgetting: every atom's glued
to progress. Nature loves a failed scam.

You orchids catch what little light you can.

You close your mind off to the possibility.
Shutting out hope, your cold heart wilters inside a fortress built with remnants of disdain and jealousy.
Spiteful words drip from your lips,
Convolging the darkest parts of yourself disguised by eloquent poetics.
Reciting confounded words only to afflict wounds that have been afflicted unto you.
Vile poison spills with such a sweet aroma.