Flowers for Harold Jones

Sunken, like thoughts of survival.
Down deep where the waters darken.
A purple bloom that summons your winter.
We lay the flowers over you.
Hoping the petals rot into your bones.
Bringing a colour and beauty, to your sweet decay.
The irises glisten still in your eyes.
Reflecting a dull glimmer, from the hospital sad fluorescence.
Your golden sparkle, now alchemized to ruby red.
We’ll cast your soul out on a sea of lilies.
Keeping your head above the serpentine reef.
Floating above those sunken ships of youth.
And poppies will adorn our flesh.
Pricking and pinching our skin.
Remembering the pain you were in.
As the opium tickles our minds.
And we see you laughing, once again.

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Love

Nobody knows what love means to you.
The bud of a rose in your life.
Or the darkness that creeps under the door.
You cannot convey, explain or say how it makes you feel.
As it fills your soul.
Or leaves you suddenly, like a bird taking flight.
Love sinks down into your DNA.
It washes over your desert like a great flood.
Trapping those grains of sand of you beneath its waves.
You will never put into words, how your love makes you feel.
Or when there are only ghostly embers of it, dying in your eyes.
Love, so relative.
And relatively unclear.

London burning

Heavy scented air, the smell of ash and autumn.
Of change brimming like a supernova.
To watch only, yet still participate; leaves me shaking.
That blood on the sky, smeared into a ruby rose.
It stains my eyes and heart.
I watch as London burns with a fire of sadness.
Of a past ignited into nothingness.
But I’m not looking for someone to blame.
Those flames lick like a consequence that is buried deep in my hands.
Red and scorched like god’s eyelashes.
Choking out the hope and happiness.
It rages on, bringing ruins to our appetites.
Finally snuffed out by huge holy tears.

Pluck

As a prelude to a harvest.
Of beautiful heads and slender stems.
Comes the bloom of life.
The rotting of the old to be buried out by the tree.
The one which hangs heavy in winter.
Topped by snow and sad inclination.
Each flower a moment in time.
Spun forth from destiny on tiny fingertips of the forgotten.
Names not to be held in the mouths of the mortal.
You pluck the rose from the marrow,
and gaze into the eyes of beauty.
While it slowly wilts into time.