I deadhead The Bloomed,
Tips trace and splinter; I am thorned,
And now prickled in adversity
To soft touch.
In darker hours,
I feel the shards anew
As my Third Eye kisses
Once more, I am reminded
How naturally muliebrity flowers.
Once more, I am inspired
To bleed the finger
Of any man who challenges
I raise my arm as if to shield from light;
I am excited by my curled wisps
He shields himself (from my light).
He is repulsed.
Vines wrap his arms in blueness,
Black slices of velvet
Fray alongside, intertwining
And inviting me to climb them
As if I were a young inamorata
Scaling the stalk to their
Yet every inch I inch closer to climax,
I slip back, as he
In morning ray, my Zucchino swells in size
Overtaking the garden and
Gently raping the lamblike florets
That lay beneath.
I sigh at their beauty,
The cucurbita, however, keeps clear
Of its One neighbour.
The most beautiful bloom in all of the greenery;
Scented from angels
And pretty as impiety.
She, The Rose, remains dreamy and untouched;
Victim of repulsion due to her thorns.
Victim of nothing, due to my thorns.
By Lyric Deep.