Bowing over flowers like bad news,
an empty coat prays for spring by
brushing against a blue, cashmere cardigan.
Passion-soaked walls listen for twilight to settle
like dust on a bonnet, eagerly waiting for the passage of time.
Death lives here and invites Sadness to step inside
with its bloody teeth.
Sensation is foreign after being numb so long
the deafening silence is a shrieking tea kettle
folding in on itself.
Numbness is a comforting quicksand gagging on velvet.
Shame is a battery-operated timer with
the perpetual motion of an unsteady gyroscope
drowning in emptiness like bubble wrap pushing in.
The atheist, in love with futility, meditates
over sweet bile-smelling incense.
Acidic soil makes hydrangeas blue
like the cloying promise of a fad diet.