the flower

How come I never saw you as loud, as a disturbance in the garden?
I guess some flowers just want to be held. They don't see the line stretching through the meadow. and a hand, selfish as it may be, is still a hand, and the flower enjoys its touch, and can become lost in that spell.
But now that you're away.
I realize how empty the garden was with you there.
The line waiting it's turn to hold me was pushed back, and then, it was scattered by the amount of room you took.
There was a frightening moment, right after you'd left, when the garden was empty. When the loud heaviness of your presence was gone.
I was alone, wavering in a soft breeze of isolation.
but then, when the others knew that you werent returning, they came back.
a gentle paitent crowd of childlike admirers stood round, each taking their turn to hold me and to enjoy what they'd missed.

No name for this...

My room has turned upside down. The bed below me is now the eternity of a black-space sky and I have become a storm hanging beneath its indifference to the earth. Bold lightening flashes of anger spring from my limbs and roll heaving and burning towards her distance. If she could die, let her. Show that errant cunt that I control existence and flesh.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
A thousand jagged bolts tear from my eyes--and then,
as quickly as it began,
it ends.
The cheap plastic fan at the foot of my bed scatters my pain, and the wind tattered silk streamer of violence laps the room once and then settles down, an old man under the blankets.
I'm a desert now, waiting to explode again.
A blank canvas of unforgiveness that refuses to be touched by God's brush.

.