Bloom

Prehistoric ferns of yesteryear
Sharp at first touch, yield, then melt.
Decaying earth transforms
To fresh-scented beginnings:
Frost blooms on windows.

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Transfiguration

Petrified, my heart
Refuses your vain entreaties
Deny the charm of your
Silver-plated words
Which do insinuate
Like cold serpents.
Give me your kiss of sin
So I may spit the poison
Into the well of your being
Which I devour —
A rapacious beast.