venus fly trap

There is a haunted ghoul that walks my walls, his toe boots metal and capped with steel;

He walks with a gait, on horseback, a parry, guns and ash-powder trailing over the floor. He carries the scent of magnolia and gray, a profile detailed in vignetted ochre; sepia and centered, two pieces of jaded sheen, like fragments of the orient, distilled into lenses.

His lips move blue and thin like ice cracks. His skin blanches as white as Siberian snow. That nose rubs red as cranberries crushed, fading more colors onto his shadow.

I never knew how to heave tricolors. Just the bone and flesh of two shades off. You fancied a wilted flower, so you plucked me in a warpath to further storm my halls. Burning my garden. Burning my legacy. Burning my rage. A flower blooms in misery. Red and white and red and gold and red and blue and white and all, the, awful, colors. 

All the awful colors.

~ MAY 2026.