The Sweetest Combustion

You know how it works – I wrote this whilst waiting for a friend of mine to get out of the bathroom on the memo section of my phone. It doesn’t rhyme, so it’s hardly poetry, but meh; it’s too late to care about creation! It was vaguely inspired by a few blue flowers I saw a while ago, covered in some red stuff – I’m pretty sure it was just paint but, y’know, Wigan’s a crazy place.

Blue velvet flowers boast
discerning patterns of life blood –
A Rorschach of existence;
Forced like a grey overall
or a buckled straight jacket
over its nature.

It comes away in streaks,
and catches on my skin.

I lift them to my lips and taste,
Iron and fat,
lost oxygen and health –
a rapidly cooling heat,
the sweetest combustion.

Scattered amongst ash and grass,
I wonder how they survived;
when the footprints of titans
warred with the sandals of Gods.

Were these flowers worth more,
to me,
than human life?

Was I the monster,
that did not mourn the body close by,
but the stain upon the nearby flora?

And a city burns on the horizon;
I trace the smoke as it twists into shadow,
and I hear the silence in place,
of the crackling flames.

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