In Prosaic

Your lump grows in your
throat. You cannot speak or sing.
Any reincarnation would be futile.

Late winter was never as harsh
like this. You need to grow thick hairs.
The bearded smile betrays the hatred
towards the tulips. Why they were so
beautiful? Appearing before the
summer sets in?

A paranoid controls the fate of
humanity. In dust lie the dreams
of unborn. God's fidelity was at
stake. Faith was breeding
the cults.

Where do you go from here?
How will you nurse the pubescent
buds? If I become a rose, will
you kiss me?

In angst I turn to you.
How do I untangle the ennui?