The Bloom Does Not Ask

A crown is placed upon absence. Petals enter bone where memory should have lived.

Red learns the language of hollow things. Thorns remain fluent.

What blooms here feeds on insistence, on hands that confuse care with possession.

Silence is dressed in color, given a pulse it cannot keep.

The skull accepts everything and returns nothing— yet the rose continues, opening wider on borrowed blood.

Some offerings are not prayers, but delays disguised as beauty.