flower to fruit.

the tears my lover sheds run deep as angels bearing sap -
the sweetness of the lotus tree, a momentary spell
of wounded wing and silver bone. my devils swarming, rapt,
to covet pearls of paradise with jaws of hopeless hell.

i fear i am a parasite upon my lover’s veins,
a delicate mycelium that haunts their fragrant soil,
their soul, their living lavender. my mania remains
and flowers into blissful flesh, a bruise refusing spoil.

my lover’s tongue has poetry inscribed upon its root,
and i will taste that mercy and forgiveness on their skin.
i am not without sin, for flowers alter into fruit -
digesting endless martyrdom, idolatry within.

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