Flora

Flowers pulled from the dirt alike flames seeding carnage with suffocating pain….

 

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Standing in Ivy’s hallway, winding wild on alabaster fossil columns.Hiding foyer. Stalks of molded oak are uninviting, yet you feel welcomed by lingering scent of Victorian musk and hints of rose. Leading you through this uprooted house, slowly stepping the petrified staircase, you’re careful of its rotted trunk but you climb. Climbing.

Only a room encased in glass, ring water stained with a green residue. More murky than muddy in a soggy corner with nothing to absorb. Poor, poor pungent puddle without a window to find a root to feed. You! Alone, dare not in your youth and neglect what you see. May I remind you! When carcass buds curl and crippled cold leaves…. soft with soil.

The (glass) room fills with water.

Staring helplessly at the wilted floras as they float in their bedrooms vase for days. No door to drain. Nothing to crack the glass of prison and only drowning their blooms silhouettes before submerging to their rest. Tears stream like a serenade under the rain, beating about the heart once, twice the beauty of every bouquet. Their blossom is my strength, every petal encouraging and reaching stems, again and again but yet I am in a glass room. A vase.

What nature can bring into a home, a home can never bring nature the same.

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