I stopped to smell the flowers, but there were words on them

A poem is when the cold chill
of loneliness changes,
and becomes holy

here you are not alone
in the tumbleweed desertscapes,
but transcendent among the gladioli

Content of course is what most
matters, but what matters even more
these boundaries could shatter

Each to each, consecutive:
the ebullient worlds:
lively, boiling, enthusiastic, agitated:

and you traversing them, like pods
effortlessly because of the power
and the eternal flowering

of words:
Your shrouded body now a lit bed of roses
For the noses

of the Gods

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