he has the heart of a daisy

what does that mean?
he shook his head, offended
never quite understanding why it was an insult either

...

if daisies are frail
why do they still dapple the emerald hillsides
like pieces of fallen clouds

do not be fooled by the delicate imagery
dainty petals and swaying stems
they too, brave the March winds
and harbour more than shallow things
their roots cling deep to their mother soil

it is human imposition
and mortal eyes too often look only petal deep

neither feminine nor masculine
nor weak, frail, or strong
they carry the mystery of the wild in their xylemic veins

i dream of night lilies the way a starving man dreams of rivers

intangible, that stuff of dreams night liles are made from
yet i desire to touch, to kiss the pale violet petals with my lips
bask in the intoxicating scent of their perfume

undeniable, the seductive musk of things that bloom at night
yet like insect to honey trap i search for another taste of their midnight sweetness
for a glimpse of blooming splendor
i am lost forever

there is something sacred about their hesitant beauty
shying away from the golden light of waking day,
they float, incandescent, like lanterns on the pavilion of night
like stars in vapour, they guide dreaming wanderers across the water

of the sun
of the night
of the stars that shine with desperate light
the glory of morning
trumpets the day
as golden hours turn to grey

i speak not
yet i write these words with fervor
i spill forth my illusionary dreams
and you’ll fall in love with my hallucinatory fever
is it a delusion if this is a delusion
join me in my make belief madness
like alice, we’ll revel in childlike wonder
so scatter the bouquet and dream in the land of flowers

cigarette tips
glowing like fireflies
ashes ashes
falling like sighs

no longer young, she sinks into vaporous memeories
clouds of smoke, she lays back in her hazy reminescence

a rose colored tragedy
beautiful to the end
not really

so desperately they bloomed
In the heat of summer, the musk of roses permeate the air

the rich tone of multifold petals
each layer darker than the rest
the brilliant shade fades at the edges
as if the poor flowers had run out of things to bleed
they bloom gloriously
forgetting the price of that lush magnificence

there is something tragic in the making

like all sweet things they don’t wither

they rot