Pyrostegia venusta

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

He sometimes thinks he has a flame vine heart

But maybe that is just hyperbole.

His heart is only overgrown, each part

Of its outside, yet maybe inwardly

It isn’t orange and green.  A crimson reigns

Inside those chambers, red the velvet there.

Dark red the velvet in the chambers’ veins

Since stained with hurt from long dead curly hair

The Christ removed from fingering love.  No eyes

Will ever see those curls again since they have been

Cremated.  Springs force now forever lies

Since those black curls will always be unseen.

  The falsehood April ever promises

    Has turned us all to Doubting Thomases.

~ Phillip Whidden