blue hydrangea flower

The flowers of Destruction: A Samhain Poem

The flowers of destruction are blooming -
Their end's prophecy looming as
They bend under the weight
Of their perpetually sleepy heads
Rising to the heavens from their
Earthy garden beds. 
They reach deep into the earth
They rise to meet the sun.
They look for water
And when they find none
Their petals all fall
One by one
By 
One
By 
one
Revealing their true purpose
Showing their true colors
Reaching their full potential
And scattering the seeds of
A thousand little deaths
To grow or wither or flourish:
A field of naked spikey heads. 

The flowers of destruction are 
Creeping
Like vines they go a crawling
In between the cracks
Causing the crumbling
Of the wall
Of that long shrouded hall
Of your dark sanctuary.
Soft tendrils
Hardening in the
Turning of the sun
Forcing apart the bricks
Making space
Where there once was none. 

Poison feathers fall between
The spaces in the rows
Of the beans that are planted
And the crops that no
Human hand did sow.
The quills they are all sharpened
The ink it has been dipped
Into the blood that has dripped
And fallen from my fingertips,
Breaking spells that 
And soft and gauzy minds
Have ripped. 

Athena she is weaving
Some sturdy fabric dreams
To fill in the patches
That have fallen
To the ripping
And the shredding
Of the seams.
A cloak of many colors
To fix what has been
Deconstructed.
An arrow to pin the buttons
Of a soul that's been tormented.

Are the seeds all but planted?
Are those septic words yet sown?
Are the actions all been harvested?
Have the stepping stones all 
Been twisted and turned?
Are those flowers of destruction
Offering their seeping pods?
Have the slash marks all been milked
For the dreams that hold within them
Calling me from this realm
Into the fabled Land of Nod?

And in resin a flower sits naked,
Poison preserved in inequity
Some tiny spell is broken
Over my back and
Across my knee.
Small curses such as flowers
Find their way back home
Into a fairy bower dying
Back into the mud and loam. 

Do not mock me dark crone!
Do not set my jaw in stone,
Do not think that I don't see
How the flowers of destruction
Call from you to me
And play sweet music
To tempt my soul back 
To an eternal home.
Do not think your potions
That sit in the belly of the spoon
Are enough to lead me
From the Wilderness
In which I roam.

The flowers of destruction
I know them,
They are but friends to me.
I have sipped at their debauchery,
My cup did overflow.
I listened as they talked to me,
I dragged their milky tears home.
I shot their visions to the heavens
I chased the dragons to their dens.
The death dreams that you foresaw 
For me
Are but another's
Gentle end. 

Thrice times unwoven eastwards
Thrice times to the iron well
Unwound unbound
Unbroken
The flowers are my friend
Not foe. 


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