Cold Flesh Blossoms

The wind rumbled in last night
like heavy freight on an overpass.
No moans or whistles: just the growl
of bitter air and the tinkle of
frozen rose petals falling like tiny
scarlet windchimes.

The dead leaves felt it coming
days ago. They crept from my feet,
whispering anxiously with
cadaver tongues in a language
of sibilance and clicks. They
fear brittleness.

It's here to stay in the bone forest
the grove of frozen fingers
the cold flesh blossoms
among the tongues that only speak in hissing whispers
all drowned in the echoes
of the rumbling wind.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside