Dead Flowers in the Bone Garden

No, this is not Bitter Crown. Cope.


A maenad princess picking Bitter Crown from her Garden

 Blue December, creeping,

these are old and lost phantoms,

abandoned, stirrings.  

Yearning.  Needing to be distraught once more.

Needing to take you home again. 

Yet thorns are needful things

Without them no bloom,

No rose or rye,

Nor dawn or moon

Thorns that grasp and

Catch, bite their prey

Here is your bitter crown o princess

Wear the thorns and See

You are made just like me

And to die,

Here in this

This Garden

Where all my friends stay

A metaphor but it

Might as well be

A real place

It’s quiet here, at last

Out in the world

No one takes more risks

No one looks at your shit

Or care what risk you took

This time

There is no perimeter, no edge, no limitation

To the colours, shapes, and thoughts you see,


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