These words, plucked,
like the severed blooms of a wilting rose,
shattered on the ground,
thrown in a wicker basket, shaken, not stirred,
petals red like martyr’s blood and white like ghostly whispers,
swirling together, chaotic, among the weeds' wild embrace.
Dumped into a compost heap,
merging with dry twigs, forgotten remnants,
the white crowns of mushrooms
poke through the decaying mass,
sentinels in a graveyard of life,

while a few woodlice scurry,
their small armoured bodies retreating under the weight of decay,
as the fork stabs into this mound of rot and colour,
turning it, turning it, coaxing the filth to ferment
and mix, in verbal archaic alchemy.

Words emerge now, rows...