SECRET BLOOM
The seed
speaks to your secret bloom, your quiet rose, your petaled room.
Slender
temple, softness curling, such designs define your tomb.
These hollow
hands breach hollow breast, reach restless places deep within.
Breathless
bliss stirs all amiss, casts moony marbles ‘cross your skin.
The nectar heart,
in cream arrayed, awaits the hour of stowaway.
Days are
yours—for dreams, you pay . . . so play my sweetest flower, play.
https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/64ceffa4-bd38-4ad1-a1d3-3a12a23d24fd/d8tw2ta-0129aa57-561c-4734-94c9-6bb9b1b421ac.jpg/v1/fill/w_1024,h_923,q_75,strp/gothic_flower_by_victor_charles_d8tw2ta-fullview.jpg