And lies made flesh flamed into hard tongues
unable to resist a purple crocus not in prison
putting its gentle truth behind bars of locution
for the simple crime of blooming mysteriously.
Thus flesh made words, no poem is innocent but
a shadow flashed, itself an enslaving lie that casts
our goodly yearn into a belief that words are real.
The purple crocus poking through the snow
is its own excuse for being.
I don't even have words for that.
Do not read this poem.