Flora

She's the petal,
the leaf,
the thorn,
the vine;
bloated with purple
tasseled in white,
she twists and turns
her way through dreams,
weaving through the open seams

of her adolescent thoughts
and sterile manners.

Would you return, Flora?

Nevertheless, I'll wait

for you by the door

that's bathed in faint silver

from the waning moon

till stark madness seeps in.