Flowers

They are  as strangers in Goddess’ home.
They greet us waving their breezy heads.
They bloom once they are our strangers.
They bloom a solidarity with us  off-duty.

On duty they breathe  a night’s fragrance.
They bloom on loud explosions of religion.
They bloom in a stranger’s room on duty.
They bloom as death’s own blood flowers.

They smell politely near the dead on duty
But turn dead in the garbage pile off duty.
They are no more strangers to our deaths,
Blooming solidarity with us in our deaths.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s