Thistle tends to break, air
   like distilled patterns cast ajar 
   on the floor, makes me 
  wonder the fragility 
    of my newfound fragments. 
 Marigold minds flourish in the 
    heated heavens and shards 
    rain down from every angle and you’re
    drowning 
    in it, 
      aren’t you?
          You’re just 
        plain 
     drowning. 
 Elsewhere the winter beams, rain feels 
    shelter; 
           there is space for you and 
         me, 
              isn’t there?
  Pretentious passions lever malicious 
mediums defined purely by the source of 
  fate,
    and the minimum call for the minority 
    manslaughter never bothered you; 
 you were magnificence, 
   were you not?
Hours later, the east simmers back, 
   downward and outward 
   oceans operate toward the 
   higher-calling 
             of you
     and there is 
   magnificence, 
   mighty,
     in the world; 
        please tell me you see it too.

Published by Charlotte Griffiths