WILD FLOWERS

 

Curiosity took the first bite, not I.

The bitter taste of knowledge poisoned my tongue.

The words, now venom resulting in hidden nakedness, twice repeated in the garden.

Punished vulnerability and new found knowledge, once barricaded by wild flowers.

Not roses, not daffodils and never a jasmine.

Nothing but wild flowers and only the wild flowers.

 

Barbed wired emotions and injected lies with the outcome pain derived from sinister seductions; blurring purity.

His disappointment the embodiment of my life…the resistance to my dreams and the finality of our failures. Atonement, repentance we seek and offered sacrifice, something from the garden perhaps?

Not roses, not daffodils and never a jasmine.

Nothing, but wild flowers we’ll give only the wild flowers.

 

The casting out, painful child’s birth beating the dry land.

The first born then he followed after, then bloodshed, marked murder reddened…

Not roses, not daffodils and never a jasmine.

Nothing but wild flowers and only the wild flowers.

 

Old age, becomes frozen in death, as I.

Crippled then stilled for eternity, six foot under they say.

Sprouting Lupine, mourns me with heads bowed and purple faces mark my grave.

The second chance to be born again, then the purging followed by the reincarnation of me into…

           Not roses, not daffodils and never a jasmine.

          Nothing but wild flowers I am only wild flowers.

 

Who’s slender stems exhibition to rot.

Paled petals those frail flimsy things, do watch how they fall!

Curtained deep in the darkness of a cold winter night, the first of many lonely petal loosen.

 My petals, those bleak beauties and our lost dying hope.

Forever cursed as a field of wild flowers and Eden up ahead.

Plucked by the root on the Eve of a new beginning, the breaking of spring and the beginning of first light segments the horizon. With throbbing sparks He sets the sky ablaze and so the world must begin once more. The new faces shine from the garden (now) our history once there but erased. And just like before that’s where it stood. That tree!

The rotten fruits ready… yes… ripe for reaping.

The shiny poking head, beaded slit eyes those spiked dripping fangs.

The wailing of the siren song luring the other victim to the tree and purity must wait.

For I am not a daffodil, not a rose and not the jasmines encircling her now.

I must only sprout, sway and watch for the juices of first bite.

 I am a wild flower and I can’t offer the world any hope.

       I am only a wild flower, never a rose and never a daffodil; but perhaps in time a jasmine.

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