I write with thread,
recording morose intentions.
My flowers grow inverted,
chubby blooms burrowing into
the soil
while the root balls glower
at me in the gray Thursday sun.
My essence is in the breeze,
carried far from me.
One last mournful whisper and it
Is gone over the impassable plain.

My blanket will be cold and uninviting,
and I will chill beneath it
like a spurned lover,

Who is it with red eyes,
the mossy fangs?
Who tills the plain?
His flowers grow up to the
unscrupulous sky,
rancid stench permeating the void.

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