Poetry

It was a weird
night. Recreating revenge by
throwing rocks on daisies.

You bring mummified
daffodils for the queen
to stop the resuscitation.

There was so much
noise between the full stops.
Words forgot to say prayer.

When you wear the face
of animals and insects,
death becomes a religion.

How many dreams
you had under the lids to
entice the wandering poet?