the unkind flower

in the mouth
anything can burn
folded sheets, asking nicely,
semblance of a previously
extended olive branch,
this hollow row of
snow-covered bricks.
her violet character
replaces emotional blasts
seen only at six minutes past
the hour on the darkest day,
the darkest day of summer
or just after
her third shot of bourbon,
eyes twisted, particles in motion.
the floral scent of aftershock
arranges old jars saved for
fallen petals.
we can adore her essence,
eulogize the garments of
her lamentations,
but there is no sweetening
the crouching foliage of
her undercover sting.

the unkind flower
– by Elsa Starfish.Wolf