the fatal garden

don’t judge me by my skin

at 4.30am

under

the street-lit madness

black—white—yellow—red

all the people

of the spectrum,

like an arrangement of flower-show blossoms

peace is plausible

but

it seemed easier to create

a mockery

of the human condition

born

of immortal Greek philosophers

well, how immortal is it?

it didn’t last long,

until the tulips and the roses

and snapdragons

and poppies

began slaughtering each other

the killing season

bitter harvests:

spring

summer

autumn

winter

and

escape