Carrying these femurs, a disgustingly
persistent little biological pump,
stumbling upon a vert blotch
standing out like a broken thumb
in this unwelcoming grey sea.
Snow piercers enter arachs gaze
so gracefully, in an instant
wandering down in time,
their presence never ceasing
in this presence.
Lilies and irises;
once looked up to,
I just turn away to poppies.
The unrelenting march of time
burning bridges for faer.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.
Visions of abyss appear in my own:
Once again reminded I'm not horizontal.
I shall decompose to diamines;
Until then I'll lament
This rose. I want to
hold it, but my filthy hands
just seem to miss, vision
so blurry faer could be anywhere.
Would it be prettier without thorns?
Give us our roses while we are still here.