Compost

The hollows scream
in an empty embrace
with unsolicited solitude
handed down from
century’s transparencies
deafening the nothingness
with fervency.

Passion passed by
poised for elucidation,
comparing itself to
pristine flights in
aqua deltas and
spacious consumptions
daring to swallow.

Scented imaginations
bartered with the
forlorn freedoms
sculpted in concrete
meadows where
metallic flowers
bore no pollen.

The carnivorous
chomped hardware
at the tomb of
Paracelsus
turning potsherds
into compost
of the soul’s winter.