Night Blossom

in the geometric days of old
circles etched our n-dimensional world

in kaleidoscopic reverie they bounced
and popped one another

pie piece-shaped mouths
consuming ghosts of haunting memories

and stillborn children should be eaten, too
though we think it taboo

reabsorption, or
waste not, want not

rainclouds do it all the time
in grand manner

with light and booms
bouncing from earth to the heavens

eating the ether they spill
they do not oppose eachother

as Mr. Digit and Ms. Pinky (of the Left Hand Digits) do
who only take and receive

giving remains conceptual
though this right hand (you see) gives freely

this flower I picked, just for you
that bloomed, bloody and full, within me

and the battery acid I sat in (when the moon was new)
didnąt burn as much

as when you wasted my night blossom
left it on the rocky grey sands

you wouldnąt eat it or help it grow
instead, it became a raisin of itself

shriveled under the harsh man-god Sun
dead by your passive disgrace and disgust

Chris Rosakranse

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