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By Noah Rymer

pressings of dead flowers

fragrant slight color dried

these burnt oaks dream

sky melting deep inside

midnight seeps into day

as blood blossoms into milk

flowers break violent harvest

pink petals swirling their ilk

spiraling into drained eyes

whiter than bone splinters

dark countenance their tinctures

pale visages severance lies

concentric cycles spinning

shadows over the cave walls

pagan dances of Walpurgis nights

Bacchanal lives lost in it all

eternal bliss caught in fragments frowned

shattered like arcs of lightning tall

over glass sensually struck down

cast like Lucifer gaining his loveless crown

the joy and the pain exist inseparable

I sigh for it all for those lost within

such things but our own original sins

ourselves irreparably lain and destroyed


Noah Rymer is a Virginian poet/writer who is trying to channel the high strangeness that surrounds him. He is also the Editor-In-Chief of Pere Ube, as well as an undergrad working diligently towards his degree in Pataphysics. You can find his work online.


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