Weeds got there first

The walls ached with their knowledge.
While the eyes of the portraits licked across the skin.
Of all those souls who dwelled within.
And even this was barely acknowledged.
For life climbed up to the ceiling.
Wrapped around each feeling.
And slithered and slunk under skin.
But the sun had its day, and blistered the wallpaper.
Bringing tears to the eyes of the young.
Who wished to bury the sun.
In the deep soil of their souls.
The petal parts and the pith.
Of the flowers and the myth.
Of which we cannot control.
And the house still stands, and the grounds still shudder.
Promising a life, unlike no other.
That blooms and ebbs like the stretching seasons.
And climbs to heaven, for most godly reasons.
To meet the maker, and the cultivator.
Basking like the wheat in the field.
Forgetting the devil, and his own dry thirst.
Ignoring that the weeds got there first.

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Bloom

Creak and crack around the edges.
Let the dust and lust fall into the sky.
I spread my skin, hiding the unsightful scars.
Dazzling instead with my peacock stance.
These petals of purity, grown forth from a rugged soil.
Dance into the sunlight, coaxing ruby and daffodil stares.
Split open this mouth and allow words to flow.
Sweet like a mountain stream.
Coursed through volcanic changes of thought.
Letting you kiss my lava lips that sting your tranquil waters.
Turn my tale towards the sun, picked like photosynthesis on evolution’s hide.
What grows there they will chatter.
The borning out of terror-former.
Shocked out of a system that was impaled in the past.
Growing new delights to tantalise and snap.
Around this Venus.
Be on your guard and handle with gloves.
This thorny rose delivered from Eden.