Trumpet vines sync a tune toned in the shades of lantanas that cross my forehead with
zenobias and dangle eyelashes of grim salt-falls that scratch heliotropes of my rough sandy skin.
I'm blooming through nepetas, jumping the surface of my comfort zone like a nymphea,
climbing high with celosia roots sprouting across my famished human flesh.
Quince lips of mine ache to speak to butterfly pains of the soul the body springers around in wisteria,
purple teeth laughing in hate of the hurt only buvardia petals feel once they fly away in the
polen sneezing sky of monochromed air freeze in the deep hue of bachelor's button.
Iberis snowflakes filter my breath,
it's winter's snowdrops that cut my limbs in the crevises of scaevola petals and slumber in
the silene of my trailed veins hording sun drops from my ill-watching eyes.
It's time to draw my swords up the humble sky for I fight to keep the good from flying
outside of space, with the echium style I'll keep my strength in order to signify my beauty.
I'm a eustoma of my own sadness!