Anodyne

Before you know it,

Your dying violets claw themselves back to life

And lock you up inside their anodynic lullaby.

Softly humming

Their thinly veiled prayers of idle salvation

That you’ve come to hate.

All while comfortably bed-ridden

In their sleepless anaesthetic —

They tattoo your chalk-white bones

With a limitless indifference 

Without piercing the skin.

Filling you with coursing tiredness 

And infrequent sun showers

That quells, dulls, sedates, and punctures

Every membrane of every cell —

Until your blood becomes numbing cream,

And you rub it on yourself.