Regicidal Vegetable

Verdant patterns reeling
and feeling like a tree:
slumbering on the road to sanctity.

Breath and breathing: separated heathens.
Stark bleeding and dark seething
in a bitter soul that's sweet and droll,
a vapid staple in the tongue you hold;
the question of a target
painted on the ashes of your friends.

The butcher doesn't beg,
not for love and not for legs.
Starving for the means to see?
Are you looking for the glitch
in the mob that set you free,
or has quiet stained
your ligneous biography?

Suited in the sleekest leaves
and hypnotized by incarnadine horizons
is the prophecy of constancy freeze-dried;
hard to believe and even worse to conceive,
if you live for a year and debase what you seize.
Piety rioting, siding with the saints in hiding;
wolves in the woods hunt where you're residing,
peering up from hell and wishing you well.

(Romance is the scent of senses bent.
Misbehave and be the ghost at sea,
a guiding star in the hosting breeze.
“F**k the sweetness..” I sighed to the green,
“you're too sly to know what it means”
[Death is a friend to me.])