always.

paraphernalia
flowers; the frozen nails
of Mars, lest I leave
in lunula wombs
to no death of our worms
and our licking wings;
I’ve dreamt no more
than the coquette black rose,
and her absinthe skin,
wormwood, dead at our feet,
to the insomnia
cocktails of phantasm,
setting down the metaphysical poetry
through my blood-flow, and the paraphernalia
of rocks, incubated with the skull-shaped
hills; is it then
so ancient?
the last fingers
of the stars, their comet conches,
to the moth’s tree
their baby woods, a morgue
of shadows and moth wings,
whitened rheumatic seas
always, the flower dies.

---

Written for Free Verse Revolution’s September writing prompt #3.

---