Drifting


Subconscious thoughts of vernal warmth
dying daffodils
yellow petals stained with iodine
When will the blood red words stop flowing?
When will the water stop boiling?

His syllables turned to pinot
With cheeks like cherries, she leapt into declaration
"I do not exist solely for your nourishment"

Dawn approaches cautiously.

In the morning
when the daffodils die
the sun joins them in mourning
leaving them with nothing
but loss
and fear of existential transition

The pot boils over.

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