Where the place turned red and the ground soaked through with what he was, I was love.

They say where the ground took on his blood, Venus designed a flower—it was red. It blew open by wind, blew apart in the wind. The myth says beauty is always a temporary state of being: to endure is to become common. How is it quick death makes memory immortal?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s