charred hornet
The sun must be staked by purple bolts
and rise anew to gleam the grass,
endowing its veins with a vivid green.
The sky must bleed to be blue again
puking the gray weathers from its mouth
like a nauseous person on a detox,
so it can taste spring’s fresh rain
from heaven’s clean bowl.
I withered through the blue seasons
to see my soul bloom in brown roots.
I didn’t know it was in my nature.
I thought the world was a wild bee
stinging my face and fingers,
leaving me with red polka dots
in the forest of shadows to linger.
My eyelids were shut
like a door after a heated argument.
I closed my bare filaments—
brooding my wintry moods
as I bend my petals inward,
scouting through
the barren soil of my mind.
The trees around me didn’t echo my name.
Time was a wall, stiff, and unnoticed
encaving me whole. I kept quiet.
I breathed the thin air. I became saggy.
My petals were sticky from the mist
of boredom and quiet futility.
Small pulses of life drew near;
I heard the great feet of rain,
stamping on the wall’s roof.
Lightning shards pierced through—
crumbling down into ashes.
The sun’s womb bore me;
my filaments shift with the light.
10/28/25
haughty wave