A Poet's Prophet

Samson of the flowers in my garden.
And watch them bloom, and wither, and wait for a permafrost
to shake their bones like straws
full of tiny beads of wet and sticky damp.
Creeping through the air like the words who share their bed
Little letters dropped from my mouth as it stretched like a tired child
sleeping for one million of the darkest years of its life.
Chewing. The beetles who gnaw their flesh crunchy like uncooked noodles and rice or pepper,
just as tricky.

There is something caught in my blood like a cork
no wine, clearly deeper.
Thick and smokey and tangling in my heart
It beats and beats, the pulse is deafening and tragic
Crying for something more than what is.
You're hand is impossibly warm and I couldn't be more sick with you
As you're breathing in my ear, but I can hear you yelling.
I can see you with my eyes closed and your hand is still warm
and it's damp on my cheek and my throat is wet from your lips
and I'm sick with you.
There are no roses in this garden. Roses aren't even the most beautiful flower.
They're full of thorny metaphors and lovers' unrequited love licking
at something impossibly so.

But this beating it kills me with every juicy drop.
It's steaming and an artery already burst.
Gushing and throbbing and beating and making the end a fine beginning,
and my hand may never move fast enough accross this cruel and winding expanse.
It sees for miles, farther I could stretch these bones.
Crawling like beetles, crunchy, my words twist in my tongue like wet and sticky love with your hand on my cheek and children in dark worlds with bones like straws, living in permafrost.
I'm living with Samson chewing brain, and it's his favorite place to be.
Stretching. Cruel, and winding.
How far is it?