Wine and iron and blood fuse together into undying blossoms.
They taste strong and strident. Milky white petals that defy age.
I find a lack of seams makes them unpeelable and predictable. I see a fortitude of ashes and lost time reinforcing their fragility. As always, I hold them in an esteem too high; they fall with a staccato of brittle echoes.
A genuine shame-- there was so much beauty yet to breathe in, great and gasping lungfuls at a time.
Every exhalation a would-have-been poem of tiny infinities.
11:07 p.m. - 2014-10-21
Recent entries:
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