Fallen altar

Seasons have changed and that’s a piercing ache mixed with sharp awe.

Today, the weeds have shot up outside my window.

Mazzerdy month waking the gales that whelmed the roses and hawthorns.

Again.

Haunting.

Again.

A discourse between lo(s)e and lo(v)e.

Flourish // Wither.

Can one repair the other that was ruined?

Thorns, white.

Virginal.

Heads, burgundy.

Vibrant.

But I also feel I got lost in tasting too much wounds.

How I altar fallen flowers?

The ones that can’t be picked nor scented.

They are better off their own to flourish.

Wild.

Left alone - Uncut.

Fragile.

Petals – Unfurled.

And a mouthful of things left in silence.

For you better be careful of what you let bloom in your heart.

I think again of time and seasons.

My heart is beating again.

Thirsts, sweeter – hungers, wilder.

Summer is coming.

Let splay the radius of days and erase all I’d seen.