Bouquet

A poem.

Bouquet

I felt
a small bare calamity
when I saw you
pressing the petals
between her teeth.

When I watched you walk together
with the ease
of an eclipse
moving across the sky.

I carried
a small bare silence
caught
between my temples.

From my back,
vines climbed skyward.

My entrails
flowered into tears
in the garden
where thorns were conceived.

When I saw you
draw an opal
from the earth.

When I saw you
pray to God
as naturally
as if conducting
a requiem.

I watched myself wither
beneath
morning's black sun
humming to the birds
the melody—
the lament
of a woman
decomposing.

The raven.

Carefully perched
among my branches—
barren,
withered,
overgrown—
pecked
at the edges
of my wound.

The raven,
its gaze
fixed somewhere
beyond my eyes—
hollow,
blurred,
endless—

whispered:

"You are
the most beautiful bouquet
of dying flowers
I've ever seen."

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This poem is based on the prompt by Labyrinthia Mythweaver

Also takes inspiration from the Sunday Scaries by Conor MacCormack, Mat Does Horror & Poetry and Labyrinthia Mythweaver

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Every quiet gesture helps.