Sunflower

Sunflower

I want to grow a sunflower in winter

to see the gold against the white.

The ice crystals freezing a season in time.

It’s a contrast at odds with the muse that lies chained against my heart.

Flashes of color paired with fang-tipped lies.

I want to feel the warmth.

I want to feel the bite.

It’s relentless in its urge to push.

Faulkner said, If a story is in you, it has to come out.

But did he foresee a world where the ancient walk amongst the modern?

Cursed with a past life, an art long dead.

Anyone these days can curate a muse. The real is now embedded in the not.

We walk in the between. Not quite here and not quite there.

I want to plant a sunflower in winter,

watch the gold spread across the white.

Give me some warmth.

Give me some light.

Show me this art of seeing

isn’t a tomb lying in wait —

for me.

Scatter the petals. Scatter the seeds.

Let me be. Let me be.

In Winter’s hidden warmth

unchain this muse

under a full moon,

let me see the real me.

xx. Rae Iolene