Red Lavenders Bloom Just the Same
By: Giona Hoaglund
why are the Posies bleeding,
fighting to the bitter end,
for a Lavender doused red,
hemorrhaging from the lungs?
vibrant Buttercups whisper
secrets on my collarbone,
resting, waiting to be plucked
for Someone(’)s sapphire eyes.
in hazes of glazed meadows,
why would they choose it?
the fragile red Lavender?
beguile the beguiled?
hushed flutters on paper thin
lines as Buttercups roar gentle
words of wisdom, so dimly fraught,
her words lay bare on my chest.
why, why, why, must daggers rest
on my shirt, simple and white,
choosing to stain me again?
choosing to gash my decree?
why do the dowagers sit
on picked Delphinium thrones,
celestial beings bearing
all the weight of my grayed sight?
when dressed across the hills
was a group of tunic-bred Dahlias,
waiting for the return of the Rose,
and all that arrived was a bloodied Lavender?
an oxymoron,
but how they still loved me so,
forgery flamed in iron,
now they despise me.
why are the Posies bleeding,
fighting to the bitter end,
for the simulated springs
I sing for, wasting in fields?
faking smiles, cut laughs,
they want to be plucked?
it’s for the temptress, mister!
Lavenders are not meant to
under (pluck) stand
fighting to the bitter end,
for a Lavender doused red,
hemorrhaging from the lungs?
vibrant Buttercups whisper
secrets on my collarbone,
resting, waiting to be plucked
for Someone(’)s sapphire eyes.
in hazes of glazed meadows,
why would they choose it?
the fragile red Lavender?
beguile the beguiled?
hushed flutters on paper thin
lines as Buttercups roar gentle
words of wisdom, so dimly fraught,
her words lay bare on my chest.
why, why, why, must daggers rest
on my shirt, simple and white,
choosing to stain me again?
choosing to gash my decree?
why do the dowagers sit
on picked Delphinium thrones,
celestial beings bearing
all the weight of my grayed sight?
when dressed across the hills
was a group of tunic-bred Dahlias,
waiting for the return of the Rose,
and all that arrived was a bloodied Lavender?
an oxymoron,
but how they still loved me so,
forgery flamed in iron,
now they despise me.
why are the Posies bleeding,
fighting to the bitter end,
for the simulated springs
I sing for, wasting in fields?
faking smiles, cut laughs,
they want to be plucked?
it’s for the temptress, mister!
Lavenders are not meant to
under (pluck) stand