[Unfortunate Blooms] a poem

Lifeless products somehow
always slither their way into profound grips,
objects quicken their omissions,
for failure art implies
seeing the dusk is always a “perhaps,”
potentially there, but not there enough,
never enough life to be used for
the young & unafraid;


As for the almost dead,
as for the newly bred,
ever-blooming peril glaze
like cherry blossoms, overspreading
their world,
strong & rich,
cynical,
weaved in fine standard,
unfortunate,
as a ghost who still feels the
rain of this life,
though it has passed over to the
hereafter


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]