Three precious pedals burn

from the burning bud

The orange blossoms bloom 
into hues of blue. 
A wall built 
from the bleeding rotten pollen. 
Gaze upon the nightly walk 
upon dead new leaves. 
Undeserving causes 
that lead more precious pedals 
to break away. 
The screams echo 
under the silent wind. 
Orange blossom stripped 
from the world unknown 
and bare.
Just enough 
to leave everyone to stare, 
at nothing left but 
a rotting stem. 
In a garden filled 
with bliss and beauty. 
Slowly dying, 
noticeably. 
Dragged down
by self doubt
forcefully, 
to a ground that counts him 
unworthy. 
Sucking the small breath 
he was holding on to firmly.

 

Three fingers cut
From a working man's hand

Amputated the life
That was killing his veins
Falling fingers
More unhuman
Kicked aside
Counted worthless
In a world with working hands
Counterfeit empathy
Hiding in open grounds
The three fingers haunt
Those who stare 
At the unconscious man
Head bleeding
Into broken hands
Misunderstand a heart
With nothing there
No precaution in his fist
Just like the fire 
That burned his wrist
Unwilling to move on
As the world drags his feet instead
Taunting hope 
In a place
That is inevitable 
To pronounce us all
dead