take a gift, friend,

these violets, plucked

from your mother's

backyard

scatter your memories,

purple petals, borrowed

from the fields behind

the train tracks

breathe the air again,

amethyst heirlooms, stolen

from heaven's front

gates

take a gift, friend,

these violets, so that

you may remember

- I am by your side forever -

the backyard,

the train tracks,

the gates

my violet,

I will not leave you behind

I love you so much that I killed a living being and presented you with it's corpse.

It's a beautiful little bloody thing that you'd appreciate

of course, I thought of you when I committed murder

there's no better way to express my fervor toward you.

This plant-based passion delights all your senses

bright red pedals, so delicately scented,

wrapped around a thorny stem and set inside my hand,

and when I look into your eyes you know that everything expires.

Everything except the love that I feel for you,

which extends its existence by feeding off the death of lower things,

including other interests I may have, and both our bodies.

had a little argument with my lover about flowers yesterday.

he argued they were impractical. useless, one could say.

i said they were pretty. they don't have any logical purpose, but they look nice for a moment, and i adore giving them to you. they're purpose is to look nice, to be pretty. and if we considered everything that's primary purpose is to look pretty, useless, that would be an awfully plain life.

and he said that's true, but beauty after functionality.

not sure i agree.

beauty drives me to do the necessary. i'll finish the dishes to go to the beach. if the beach was considered useless, just because it's pretty, and i didn't go purely out of "is it tangibly useful" it would be much harder for me to do the dishes.

i think i'll bring my lover a flower on saturday. just because i can. and maybe it's traditionally "useless", but to hell if that means i'll stop gifting them to him. perhaps a daisy, because those are his favourite. perhaps a purple rose, or a red carnation, or something blue.

I gave him a yellow rose

And he smiled.

He said no one had ever given him a flower before.

I told him it means friendship.

He pulled an arm around me

And told me the same stories I've heard a million times.

I smiled as best I could

As he pulled me down the path

Tucking myself against the cold.

I gave him a yellow rose

But I wanted to give him red.

A room crowded by darkened thought

Gloomy air transversed by sorrow

Grief stricken only one is not

A white window to tomorrow

A beacon on a tragic night

That one has found the next day

Perfumed petals are pure and white

As wings flying the soul away

My friend dances on a stage covered in flower petals;

the Audience’s thanks for Their performance.

Their pointe shoes pick their way through the crowd of red and white roses

finding my soiled orange converse that complements the gray concrete floor.

I meant to give Them flowers today

at least fresh ones

but I had bought them a week before.

Not only do they wilt, but they crumple

curling like the ends of Their auburn hair

dried after sitting in the winter sun.

Without hesitation They snatch the bouquet from my shaking hands.

I blush, mumble, and excuse my inferior appearance

except they don’t care

They are just happy I am here.

Smirking beneath his hood, the Grim Reaper arrives,

Beckoning him forward,

Hunger gleaming in his eyes.

He follows every curl of the Reaper's wiry bones

The man who claims to have it all,

Little does he know Mr. Grim here is just here to take back what he owns.

Isn't this what they call the pride before the fall?

When he gets close, the Reaper whispers low:

Dear mortal, where did you think you would go, with all this pomp and show?

Remember my words and repeat them slow

Every night to yourself so that you know:

The more rotten the soul, the sweeter the harvest

For men like you, the night is darkest.

You shall beg for a taste of light but have none

Such will be your plight, you will come undone.

With that Mr. Grim hands him the flowers

And dissipates into the late hours

Of the night.

But this is not all, the man realizes soon enough,

These soft creatures are made of sterner stuff!

The Begonias in pink smile up at him and say:

"Beware! your pride will lead you astray...''

'Enough of this folly!' The man exclaims, and throws the bouquet into the furnace, it goes up in flames.

He thinks its over and collapses in his chair,

With beads of sweat dripping from his hair.

I'm going mad! He thinks to himself in despair

This is it, the end is near.

"Not so quick!" A bellowing laugh resounds.

"This is what you get, o mortal, for crossing all your bounds."

All of a sudden, the embers begin to glow,

It blinds the man momentarily, causing him to groan.

Before he can recover, the fire grows and grows,

The only thing the neighbors hear are the petrel's sorrowful moans.

Took a bit of a dark turn but this is what I came up with, haha. Hope you like it.

Give me lilac lullabies, the nostalgia of my youth

Bring me daisy daydreams, for the secrets that I'll keep

Wrap me in blue hyacinth, to know I'll always stay

Crown me in your ivy wreaths, a matching pair we'll make

and even in the moments, that you're giving what I take

I'll cull meaning for myself in bittersweet and sage

Valuing the thought that counts and what they can never say

I hold the bouquet that is my heart

In my hand. My breath becomes contaminated

With the anxiety that haunts me; I remember

"You're good. You're good. I promise."

Your voice echoes in my head - I don't know why

I always listen to what you say; I don't know why

What you say always works, makes sense.

I relax and give you my heart - I do not love you

Romantically at least. But my trust for you is

As colourful and complex as the bouquet of flowers you now hold,

But unlike the flowers, I hope

It will never wither and die.