Heat rapture terror
The unexplainable madness that ceases sense
Can there be mad sense of the worth?
Here we find the weather
Here we find the turmoil
Feelings: the longing that never consummates
Madness is not named
Random drops of color in a whirlpool of desire
Find, classify, perfection
Isn't that what we long for
The longing and the screaming
"What do I want"
The unspoken need?
Is there really control over these emotions
Childish mind like the cat in heat
How far have we fallen
Dip the toe in water and be sucked in
Is it fear? The inability to cope
Can't I find perfection
How to define such a word as this
My mother, the way I saw her as a child with us blinded by my childhood
Is that where my fairytale falls?
The cool calamity
The great white whale
Touch me
How can something so simple be
In all heat and terror
With fallen angels in heaven's grasp
The worth of madness descends
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
