Don't you know the flowers growing from my heart in this tepid soil, rich and fertile and watered, free of undergrowth? Free of weeds and vermin and pests? Don't you know the roots are attached to my veins, pumping blood? This vampire flower flooded and come to life so that I may always have a corsage, a red carnation at my breast no matter the occasion: Whether wedding or pool party, no matter the weather. If it gets blown off or picked off, it will grow again. There is buried treasure worth more than golden pirates coins beneath this organ. Alabaster twilight when the lights go out and on. In some DMT afterlife. Dumbledore at King's Cross, counting specks of dust without a concept of time. Whitewashed reality. Differing opinions. Mainstays for liberalism. My heart is all emotion. It can only do that which keeps itself alive. Soul moves around and squirms and wiggles. 'Til death do we part, this heart. Symbolized rings on fingers, cascading terraform. Gods or Titans? Shirts and skins. Mind you not which boggles you down, the words on the cusp of my brain forgo my lips and through my fingers and onto the keyboard where I hope this nonsense makes sense some day, some time, someday. Rocketburst trip to the moon. All I want is outerspace bliss where I do not have to worry about my bodily functions. Snipping away at haircuts long postponed.