As I Think of Mankind

I see the deserts of ravenous wind
That howl such scarring red; it floods the air.
With those withered branches that dance for fury
And snap. No mercy.

Violets of lust, the carnations of sensation
That wrap like wet silk and press between
The fingers, dripping dry sweet droplet tears
Into our skin. We shiver in heat.

We let quiet vines creep into our
Selves that struggling, now no longer infant,
Awake in silence to claw at the bricks
And tear them down to dust-like pleasure.

We repent; curling into the silent ball
In quiet form of beauty
And beauteous form of quiet.
But erring child can only arch the song,
And silence no longer tranquil now resounds;

As white hibiscuses of shame
intruding our charred souls are bloom.