Planetism.

Green daylight
disappeared behind luminescence.
Provocative to a level of feigning syndrome.
Coma. Garden. Acidtrip.
Whitelight bath for the newborn passion,
birthed in violence.
The death of her mother,
clinging to a bloodclot for dear life.
I am nothing to...
Awakening from her sleep, the child now
grown and lucid to the realities of the world
left the beauty of phosphorescent existence.
She walked for days pursuing a life void of such
revolution
because it's turning like the open buds of flowers
to absorb the footstep song.
Coma. Garden. Acidtrip.
But she never woke up,
mortem in utero. Still born.
Or did I abort it?