their crimson essence shooting from Abigail’s lips, projecting onto the sycamore
before her, dripping on the pearls of a different time that were bone-pale
like her flesh, scarred with the hooves of crows, emanating the scent of violets
while she crumples to the ground in the industrial wasteland, seeing her garden
before her eyes, and remembering how it was when she was still sprouting up like sunflowers.
grew so tall and unyielding to the winds, with poppies
piled around them; this was her garden
with the young sycamore
she’d grown so attached to, and her scent of violets
clung to the tree as she hugged it with arms that were bone-pale.
Abigail’s eyes open, full of cataracts and years of hardened joy: milky orbs of sunflowers,
and her fingers course frantically through her every follicle of hair, spreading the whiff of violets
as she’s looking and seeking, she tries to replace blood with poppies
and find even one more tree, somewhere, to be a companion to this solitary sycamore
that stands in her blurred vision, causing her screams inside herself, demanding back her garden.
of melting heat, blended cells, and membranes, removing the last bit of purity from bone-pale,
while splattering on and painting scarlet the last sycamore,
Abigail’s heart quivered and choked on the lost youth of sunflowers
And her thin lips parted to release another ambrosia spray of poppies,
drops of pain as sadness to remind her of the rain, of her grandmother in prints of violets.
are what her Grandmother grew in her garden,
and Abigail would play ‘ring around the roses’ in the field of poppies,
and her Grandmother, with wrinkles that were bone-pale,
was taller than all the sunflowers
as she said, “God is in the rain and the garden,” with her old body leaning against the sycamore.
she dug at the moist earth in search of her violets,
in search of the long lost days of tea parties, in search of her growth like sunflowers,
in search of her homeland, and in search of her garden:
her fingers were thin as quills of an eagle’s feather and bone-pale.
her life flowed out of her then with the pain of crimson poppies.
the binding of her wounds, oozing poppies
dripping on the sycamore’s roots and the last of it’s bone-pale
bark, would’ve prevented passage of Abigail to her new garden full of sunflowers and violets.
((Note: Some of the lines are too long for wattpad so they have been dropped to a second line, sorry. Oh, and the cover is an acrylic painting of mine called 'Burnt.' I hope you enjoy, and please leave comments, thank you!))