A shoot can sprout from my head during the spring and summer months. 

Though to rely on its blossoming in time to flourish is wishful thinking.

By fall it’s dead…

When the first showers of April plop on my nose a flutter begins in my chest.

Like a spark to the flame under my ass I am put into this phase of unrest.

The seed forms from the shaping of my mind and burrows its way up to the surface.

A crack in the shell commits it’s passage and focus can push the steam through.

In the mirror I feel the sprout with my fingers, studying its sturdiness.

While I sit and wait for its bloom, the only thoughts I can think are true.

For as soon as a hollow emotion occurs, the bud is subject to doom.

The oracle's words of weary will always create that which they warn against.

The hopelessness can set in and in front of the stock is a fence.

I lay my head to rest at once for the task at head will be fruitless.

In my bed I see visions, I dead, but upon my grave are the splaying petals.

When I wake the reality sets in.

I rise and walk to the sink, spitting the bad taste from my mouth.

As the tap runs I raise my chin.

This time I’m glad to be wrong.

From my skull and up the trunk a yellow flower standing strong.