as a flower is beheaded by a child he is one too

all else is closing in now like the crush of the blue mountains.
when the faces are having it all, those friends
who are in love in their baskets of light.
it's then that you can drive into yourself, your own light
through the venetian blinds where the rose blooms, blossoms, and
dies.
I am here because I choose to be in my search for light,
but am often in darkness; draw blood in spite of wry madness,
or sit as still as the planets pissed at the sun.
you can scream but nobody can hear you.
the earthquakes have not killed enough, the meteors, the fires,
the murderers, and the plagues have failed too.
the stink of light is everywhere and
too much for the delicate thunder of words