Apothecary Poem by Morimyth Weaver

White orchids flow
A little more like you.
Red roses grow
A little in each grave.
Submerge the ashes of old flames.
This lantern proves better
To light your way.

Weave your own soul's cage.
Shut it all away.
Tell yourself that you're locked inside.
Such a comforting lie.
You dig your grave.
Slowly, deliberately,
Arrange each lily to crown
Your heavy head.
Apothecary.
Apothecary?
Apothecary!

Pure bloomed remains
Sweet elixir for you
Gathered at three
Moonshine where she lay
Her hand reaches out
A little more toward you.
As much as you loved her in life,
You still turn away.

Weave your own soul's cage.
Shut it all away.
Tell yourself that you're locked inside.
Such a comforting lie.
You dig your grave.
Slowly, deliberately,
Arrange each lily to crown
Your heavy head.
Apothecary.
Apothecary?
Apothecary!

Blooms piled higher than you stand.
A growing absence,
cold creeps over your hand.
Heave one single sigh and it's gone.
This loss is nothing new.
Shed your skin,
the past behind you.
But every bloom is doomed to wilt
without the sun.

Apothecary.
Apothecary?
Apothecary!

Weave your own soul's cage.
Shut it all away.
Tell yourself that you're locked inside.
Such a comforting lie.
You dig your grave.
Slowly, deliberately,
Arrange each lily to crown
Your heavy head.
Apothecary.
Apothecary?
Apothecary!

(Written 2019)