The Liquefaction

It was not a glass menagerie of thorns
it was a a flower house
smitten by the beauty of a flower,

a flower that with its white flames
blistered under the sweaty skin of glasses.

That wrote moon light
in its whiteness
upon the blackboard of nights,

a flower that if someone ever saw its face
would never look at anything else,
or,
more than one glance
it would nothing remain of him,

nothing but a second
liquefying in eternity,

or,
the eternity
deliquescing
in a second.