Raising The Ghost Of Flowers



As your petals fell, one by one,
disenchanted
tumbling off on their own as though to prove
fear that feeds must feed upon itself and feed alone,
you thought your glory moment
should be preserved,
blossoming for all the world to see,
while all the world, you see,
was busy blossoming on its own.

Not even your misfortune,
calibrated by the seasons,
could be said to have sprouted
from deeds undone alone
or weeds that sprung from fallow desire -
and the trust misplaced in renewing memories
was yet another of disappointment's dormant species:

This cycle turns inexhaustibly,
time wears down in an ineffable accumulation
affording little of destiny's promised light.

You watch the distance as though it will return,
unlected by memory's selectiveness
that plucks its heroes from the anonymity of soil,
passing off as dust even those that served
the layer that was next in line below
as though it would never rise above.

Yet again and again
with the same prospects of eventual vacancy,
drained of purpose, the inability for progress
rendering time's account meaningless,
You rose
above the dread of empty living,
knowing that such suffered cycles
cannot be lived again without the hope
of many springs to feed belief's unsteady blaze.

Evnetually there comes a penance due,
peeling back the layers
to reveal the blossom of the fool,
for your impatient ticking, thinking
you could mourn yourself alone,
a self-inflated black and blue.
Beneath an autumn vault of heaven stained
with tongues of fire,
you screamed for generations
as words pollinated in the runway of the mouth,
disapproved, never airborne, leaving no debris,
the passenger of sentences
who died without knowing
they were never uttered.

Yes, innocence paid for this empty now.

Better to have never arched for sunlight's promissory beacon
or bent yourself in vain to flourish
in the earth of sorrow's gardens.
Fruition is not the only measure,
but an indication of how much time is left.

Mitigate your loss without efflorescence -
rebel from misery impatiently
so that your seedlings are not in vain;
perspectives you adopt in fits of generosity;
nutrients to fortify the loam
you seek to build upon.

And if the sun you crave
in dashing blindly off to dream
provides no cheery elegiac,
perhaps the eyes require a change of scenery -

wherein the foliage returns,
caught forever fossilised
in its most self-relevatory moment.