dragging my bum heart.
Smudges from caring fingers
trace the cracks on my walls.
Beautified blooms from every season.
Idealized silken bud
forgotten by the emerald dragonfly.
whispers in gossip.
The dissonant crash was catastrophic,
no simple brushstrokes on a canvas skull.
Where is the splendor here?
In the observation of fragile petals?
In the continuous prick of a thorn?
I am not proud to be
the wilting pink carnation
or rotting peach on display.
I will not animate
The Widow with the Pearl Earring
wearing her badge of courage
for the admiration of casual visitors.