In the lost town of strange maladies, dawn gardeners grow frosted roses.
Tulips bleed colour into leaf cups of desire.
Have you heard the winds howling back at wolves, naked, rugged?
Wisps of black smoke licked the orange tongues of flames.
Don’t you blame blue for your pain.
Is all this light bleeding for salvation?
Vice-peddler, did you see the green-tongued snake? It was charmed.
Were you too? Or were you faking it?