The Last Baby's Breath
Contrived and vibrant,
the garden of flora blooms.
It is His hand, coated in
thorns, and His thumb glowing
Red.
It was joy that He found,
directly or indirectly,
from the suffering of the
Blooms.
Their blossoming bosoms
were doused in pain:
adaptation was necessary.
Just as their vibrancy became poor;
their language became poor.
The conformist culture:
perpetuance of the cult of domesticity,
promotion of de jure segregation,
protection of the provocative Protestant
-- and incriminated Catholic.
He, it was He, who reigned:
his pale hand choked
the fervidity of language
from the
promising poets,
perfect prosers,
passionate producers of the art
of art.
avow aim . . . to destroy 'The Man'
He has choked the life of language
to become nothing but words of pain.
If art is only pain,
then we are merely producing
coping mechanisms for ourselves . . .
creativity falls into the margins.
Our poets are never seen beyond
a depressed adolescence.
Our painters are never seen beyond
a commercial logo conveyor.
Our artists are never seen beyond
an optimistic hobbyist.
Return the Flowers.
Do not let even the Baby's breath
fall to The Man.