Through drapes of crimson wisteria
wet on my face
I hide amidst the jaundiced ferns
and malevolent water lilies
that loiter within and
upon a stagnant pond
in which water moves
but does not flow
alive with decay
a mercurial tortoise
slowly dying
from quiksilver poisoning
easily outpaces my hair that
cannot blow
with no wind in it
I hear the shrieking of
telepathic tadpoles in my ear
undone by the injustice
of growing into frogs
and not princes
there is no magic in a kiss
not for them
a bright future
lily pads
and plump flies
leave them cold.
Is that all there is?
locusts rub backlegs together
synthesizing a portentious sound
a prophecy,
a warning
darkness coming
The moon plots floracide
looking upon the bright-faced
marigolds with malevolence
Resenting their mime
of Solar polarity
the greatest
compliment is mimicry
no flower here
is silvery
that fact does not
escape the illumination
of the moon's cold
lunacy
as it slips up the
lip of the world
appearing
scarlet
through the
rose colored
lens of ions in
the atmosphere
Waxy-faced
white
water
lilies
colored
stained
by the moon's
garnet rays
to
rusty brick
hue of spilled blood
long forgotten,
or never known
lamented only
... by the spiller of it.
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