Spider-web of veins,

mapped as elegantly
as the streets of LA.
Nothing is accidental about them;
The reds of cranberries,
of ladybugs and smoggy sunsets
carefully-carelessly layered,
methodical chaos.
Tarnished by golden dust,
unexplained,
the snow of the gods.
Paper-like, full of promises,
very much alive but utterly intangible,
whispering sweet nothings into the air.

One step back.

Winter sun’s gentle curve,
edges flowing like water,
crisp creases coveted
by origamists.

But…

A rustling, just out of reach,
betrays a gross imperfection.
Sounds of loss, sadness, poverty.
Death.

One step back.

What were once dazzling green canopies
have turned brown chrysalides,
waiting to birth some horror into the world.
Flowers, a sickly purple,
the wrinkled skin of a dying god.
What were once botanical spinal cords,
are now limp,
weak. Held up only
by a rusted silver prison,
timeless.

One step back.

The few greediest petals
have doomed the plant.
Unrepentant murderers,
Or bewildered survivors.

One step back.

A seed,
bastion of renewal
and second chances,
falls from the flower,
into the fertile soil.