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TERRACE MARISH / LISBON TULIPS / PAST THE KETTLE. (25:17) ❀ ⁺  .

Carnations die on vine inchmeal upon the silvery cesspit, slip behind bottles with labels bleached to read. Peonies were besought in-between recipe bits and in tatters invoice from tavern. Entrance corridor stench close to an old chamomile tea, steeped too long saved for someone whom never reach. Camellia shrubs greased palm on the porch as they had something to utter, thus drowned out when the shutters clicked. Hibiscus petals fell inside the oatmeal box this noon: no one knows how or the purpose, merely perceived as a message worth saving. Here and there halfway blanket and a vase that never been satiated, dead haven made room for something to bloom again. Perhaps this memoir shall stay! Mayhap not? Either way, the orchids still aim.
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