Curved in at the edges
how we cower from ghosts
and host these demons
until they choose to leave
when the tides rip sideways;
the violets only bristle
in the breeze.
Purplish hands are kind of heart
in clouds of whimpered sweetness.
Recall the swaying petals
in a rampant storm
that we plucked and
now adorn

A chain of stems that
chastise each movement
and disarm me.

Make me glorious
with that scent and


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