KILL SOME TIME જ poetry.

leptidopterology

there are aspects even the lilacs can't grasp. nowhere near the catatonic bearings the dandelions whistle to the wind, dying to be blown free from their holds on lust.

there are hands the cotton can't hold, fingers the dahlias wish to kiss and prickle with lithe. lithe beyond words, lithe beyond mirages.

they think to themselves as the creators, the people, the derived from bell beings clasped by the neck of angels. and perhaps they sing on key, they do. they sing ! they bristle, they shudder, they bellow because yes-

yes, they've found themselves, but no. have they really ? they've found nothing but the roots, thorns, septime caverns waiting for arrival. look to the dirt- what have you seen ?

legs, they swear. we have legs ! legs with numbness, limbs with phlegm and bile, knees with red, blood stained mud. its lacerate, and it boils. but how do they mutter the pain, succumb through that rain that tears their spines and gives them life with the floods of pressure ? chrysanthemum, you can't do this. diphylleia you have to do this. but no, no, no.

they're nothing but verde, nothing but lean bindings we keep on our breasts. they hear through these walls, they hear what we maltreat when we handle them so. why do we handle these specialists so blatantly when they'll creep later when i weep, and sleep, and tumble down my feet when i can no longer stand to see the life i live ? we'll truly never awake from our flower beds- and is this what you wanted ?

garden, tell me, is this what you wanted ?