roses grow from a stem
planted in the
mix of soil and
abrasion
tended by
hands of
mercurial conjecture
in a midnight
garden.
precociousness is cute
on little boys
you whisper in the ears of
lovers,
precociousness is deadly
to lesser men
you write across palms of
desire.
violets grow from a steeple
that houses the horses
that buck and bray,
their heaving and lather
fertilizing the slopes
running through
the trails in midnight
stardom.
patience is cute
on lesser [...]