Destruction of Nihilism
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The silence of the flowers is heard by ears
Inside the ribcage, there inside curved bones,
Their marrow. Silence of the flowers fills years
Of clear eternity, prophetic zones.
The fragrance of the flowers fills depths of souls
And when the flowers are fragranceless to nose
Of man, an inner organ, heart or lung, patrols
The landscape of the spirit, past time’s snows
For cleanliness of purity. If flowers
Lack colors, eyes seek through Nirvana for
A specter’s blink of tint outside the powers
Of senses. Martyrs all we yearn for more.
When blossoms are too insubstantial to
Be touched, they turn to antimatter blue.
~ Phillip Whidden