They fall, solitary or clustered,
Sloughed off by life’s inexorable spiral breath.
In, out, expand, contract, live … die.
Festoons of come-hither signal the winged eunuchs.
“Here it is,” they promise, “oh, god, yes, like that, just like that.”
The fluttered fuck and go,
Impetus for their petaled existence,
Transports pollen-life to the whole,
And withering death to the succubus slivers.
Swirling skirts, once lifted, tatter.
Made use of, purpose served — rejected.
Only virgin flowers count.
We blame them, the men,
For following nature’s unnoticed pattern,
Scrived so boldly it blinds us,
And weeping, we wonder why, falling down to die.

[Image credit:]

About suzanawylie

Suzana Wylie is the not-very-pseudo pseudonym of Susan Wylie Wilson, because let's face it, there are lots of Susan Wilsons around, and as an author, I want readers to find ME and not the bazillions of others. I've been writing all my life - since I learned to hold a pencil anyway - and can't NOT write. Other people have to breathe to live; I have to write.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s