sweet is the nectar of the flower come bloom
but all the more pollen to shut down the senses
finding yourself lost and defenseless
in a field of burning chrysanthemums
and remember
that mums the word
or another mad cherub flies, diving, dieing, killing
the heart that never had a beat
in the rhythm we call the night
and dawn, dawning on the mind
that the desire for the fire is psychotic unless you have a fire suit,
or at least a nice tie,
to tie the knot in your stomach
because the thought of another morning alone
means more because you can only see an empty bed
when light breaks in the east and July ends
somehow forgotten when the fireworks fade
in the shade of another sequoia,
taller than the soles of the ratty old boots
that got through the door.
and four letter words go racing through the halls
but they can't resurrect the silence