The yellow is supposed to cheer me up,
but fails, catastrophically, as they give
off their cancerous air.
They bleed from their stems,
conglomerating in the purity of the
water in which they infect.
The smell of disease fills my room
and sinks into my every pore,
their miasmic stench corrupting
my vulnerable lungs.
Pestilential flowers, pretty flowers
rotting in their glass house,
virulent, contaminating
my secret spaces.
Mephitic flora, damaging my senses,
spreading their evil in epidemic fashion,
defiling my person.
Treacle Heart 