The Garden

Ivy vines climbed higher than ever before  
toppling from the roof and rain gutters, falling
tips gently flirting with tea roses, silky-soft  
imperious and astute in horizontal tango.
Blushing pink peonies; silent witnesses  
hung their dewy blooms pretending to study
the architecture of grass, blades of swords
cursing the heavens; lust soon turning to dust.
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Something erupted from the skin, cloudburst
an arbitrary designation of unbridled peril  
hunger consuming all senses legible  
as ripe as sweetened tart pomegranates  
bursting in vortex of synapse, unfurling
on axes of obsession and possession
turning madonna into a whore.
 
Nocturnal nights undressed shamelessness  
of its fragile veil awakening tempest desires
aphoristic sweet synchronicity of ebb n’ flow
intoxicated by the curiosity of touch, tilled with
utmost fury, nails dug savagely in the curve of
loins slicing O’s in half to the bone, escaping  
moans into steam wickedly eluding forevermore.
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Leaves wiped of dust glisten on stems stripped of
thorns placed in center of the room.  Bruised petals  
droop omitting scent of musk salty-lust drunk on  
tepid waters, watching a shadow cross streak-
free panes, as thin as twine crawling methodically  
winding with inquisitive preseverance seducing  
voluptuous tinged peonies; madness in bloom.