The Bloodshot Tulip


A tulip.
That’s the last real, innocent, breathing thing on earth, to me.
Nobody thinks the same anymore,
nobody breathes the same,
only a small tulip without a brain stays the same.
Maybe the moon too, if it wasn’t so far, if it didn’t reflect on the crimson stained lake so well.
Maybe the Eiffel Tower, if it wasn’t so discarded, a sycamore tree, ripped at every edge.
I can still hear motorcycles at night, the city is gone, only silence, covered with an envelope with death and glory inside.
We’re sealed in.
The raven bird that sings above me sings of another chance,
another chance at a world where the only breathing thing is not a bloodshot tulip.

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