The Poison Flower


Mark Andrew Holmes

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

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