Tuesday, June 2, 2015

Why Plants in Nature Always Resemble Old Horror Movies

Life amid the dead
Both delicate
Purple
Unfolding to a meadow
Where every farm girl walks at dusk
White petals billowing
The air of gothic melodrama
Where crows wings turn blood red
And only seem alive in light.

Then sunset flares its spectral aura
To signify the ending of this world.
Sight cannot contain the seen
Like the crow's croak there's so much hidden
That we carefully agreed not to see:
This thing we feel,
What we call nothing.

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