Flowerpetal

Some words are seeds of newly harvested thoughts

we donate them unconditionally and irreversibly

like we do during Thanksgiving Day

for loved ones or good friends.

Some words are foreign devils and ghosts

that come to us at three after midnight

crossing the wall that separates two words

at the time when it translucently dilutes.

Some of them are innocent young children

who temporarily lose their way home

in the bushes of life – holding hands

dragging each other through the unknown paths of life

uphill and downhill.

But some other words are young phoenixes

born there,  from the ashes

there, where the fires of crushes and distractions

incinerated  everything

but “flowerpetal”.

And look how the wasteland between us

is turning in to an efflorescence

together we planted the young phoenixes  in the cold ashes

the buds of the wings flourish in our eyes

and you start calling me again

“flowerpetal” 

©M.P.