It was a molotav cocktail
Too much booze
Shaken
Not enough love and tenderness
Lots of bitters
The garden
Once her pride and joy
Rested
Defeated
Surrendering all of it’s splendor
To ugly weeds and vines
Wrapping around the trunks and branches
Of the small flowering trees
Wresting breath and animation
A botanical of the grave
The fairies were missing
Devils had moved in
Within glass bottles
That would be hidden
In the back of closets
And under the bed
Forgotten about
Like the pot on the stove
Love and intimacy
Burned away inside
With the brittle chicken bones
Turning ash grey black with carbon
The flowers of romance
Long withered and fallen
Petals crisp without color
Spread around the base of a vase of clear glass
Of which the dark departed stems were visible
In the futid green foamy septic water
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