The damned will dream of daffodils — then scent
of hyacinth, a marigold pill are what
remain when they awake, a sacrament
accepted by mistake. Without a thought
of what will come, they close their eyes, offer
panting tongues to either a tincture or
a seed. Fertilization is an honor
to concede — immaculate even more
upon this sanctioned dirt. The prince of thorns
requires it must hurt. A spectacle of
flesh and blood where petals will be torn
from tightest buds in the name of love
and fealty and Roman holidays.
Each beauty pruned for this brutal bouquet.