The intricate blossom, ugly hues of crimson, black, gold and purple
Unfolds, and the odor of neglected abbatoirs
And sewers
Grows stronger, spreading over the world
A spiritual cancer
The flower of dementia, its petals soft and leprous
They burn the fingers like acid at a touch, leaving permanent scars
Disfigurement of the soul, no one is immune
The stink stifles and crowds out all good
Softly and terribly, the flower continues to unfold
Surrounded by a pale aura as of radiation
That leaps out like a predator
From whom everything vulnerable flees unsuccessfully
It took root long ago, when people became people and could think
It leapt from the first wrong idea
It may never die--we must accept its existence
Copyright 2001 by Mark Andrew Holmes