Dead Flowers in the Bone Garden
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,