His is a mind so tangled in life,
overflowing with flowers,
thoughts that bloom in full colour,
but never see the sun.
His is a mouth so silent,
not even the poetry blasting into his veins
and pumping through his body
can make it out of his mouth, without
withering away on the tip of his tongue;
it dies on the cracked edges of his lips.
His is a world so intricate,
like flowers etched into the glass of
doors that never open and
windows with curtains forever drawn.
Once he tried following the lights but
lost his way; his frozen heart weighed
him down, so he melted it within
the walls of the house he’d built
inside the tunnel whose end he could not