wreath

this flower of me is a last dance
arch, crystaline, posed and
branching in a final spree
green hope, betrayed by rebirth.

my body is fruiting
and i am made to reach through it,
blossoming falsely
as though toward a fulgent unseen shore
light beyond dark murmurs, these cluttering
letters, flesh transactions,
all the fleeting breaths pressed
together into each day.

i am hurled outward in
their greying colors.

my insolence stains like pollen
then forfeits its young game, silently made
archaic and quiet as a stone forest.

another clarion of the winds
is told, always again, and what
harbored as mine is made blank
like blind wave after wave filagreed
against wan sleeping dunes.

stars ping and thunder
and their low hoary song at last seeps
from my abandoned petals.

i thrust forth in vain,
flambouyantly reduced to seed
and the aspirations of my lungs turn
finally to their last wood.