Petals
I wonder if flowers feel themselves slowly dying
Bathing in the bright,
A rosy lemon violet smile,
How soon shall that wither and fall?
A blown Watercolour world,
Standing tall and striking,
How can the world be anything but
sweet and nourishing and soft,
Pretty like me?
Time doesn’t care about the softness of your soul.
The stars and the cosmos will go on,
They are dead before the light reaches the corner of your eye.
But you do not know what it’s like to be that white glimmering star,
You do not exist in a million gazes.
If you look closely constellations resemble faces,
Lines deep and fine, developed through the ages,
The static smiles etched on a photograph will move and twist and fade,
stories will live on in voices and tongue,
Folklore will grow arms and legs and wings;
Living and breathing metaphors.
I will search for these constellations,
Eyes heavy, scarlet, swollen.
Fixed down to the glass,
Golden, shooting and fading,
The last scream of fizz.
Ghastly,
Echoing flat, if not to taste.
Pretty if you ask me.
For how can they disappear?
They are ingrained.
All that I’ve ever known is you,
The rock of a stone, father of mother
Curled on your knee warm and safe,
Bathing in the bright
Your Ally Bally Bee
A rosy lemon violet smile,
A gift from the cosmos,
Just for me.
Copyright ©
Alana Banks
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