Your poison is sweet, as the honey-kiss dew-drops,
swaddling the land in the stillness of the dawn.
You scatter your petals, bitter bite-sized,
tumbling pastel, rosy flakes of morn.
In lazy motion, long arms stretching,
acid tendrils lick the lying night.
You gather your petals in a cast-iron basket,
reaping barbed-wire beauty, metal torn.
Careful not to prick your fingers,
petal-puss rising, oozing, left, and right.