My fear is perfected.
Its bract ornamental arms
coerce a smile into leafless impermanence,
The illusion of desirable scarcity
Comes from abundance,
Our bare soles
scrape with a song:
We have come so far, but it is not over.
Every dead itch, a tangled serpent,
Every single one
Groveling at the bottomless bowl.
They are perennials,
stomped by clumsy feet dangled and
Stiffened by a musk that bleeds
Sweet notes of a winter flower.
I have everything to be sad about,
Bones shivered, composed of six white sepals.
The ants are used to my capsules.
They wait for me to die when my fruits rip(e) open.