The Orchid

I How horn is their solemn mirror, a tangle of crimson flowers all bloom and death— I am lost against ethereal shadows. I weep in lace, praying the death of orchids.

II You want a blade, to slip along this darkness. Let the orchids share their scent with strangers. And I; let me weave amid the lilies. Day will braid herself again, in my hidden heart.

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