Morning glories bleed white on a hot summer's day,
broken from the vine, life irretrievably snatched
earlier than had nature taken her slow but steady pace.
The sticky, milky white substance developed by
the process of photosynthesis, sun from the hot sky,
water from the deep roots, it falls, one drop
like a tear from an eye, the preface of a roaring
river dammed by an incessant need for growth.
Morning glories bleed white while Adrian bleeds out.
She was the chance-less, opportunity-less product
of the simple yet virile act of coitus,
a thing unwanted while a daughter desired,
a child whose life promised more brokenness than window panes
shattered by rocks thrown from a distance.
Hers was a life snatched from the umbilical vine
which, for a short period, provided a regular diet of fifths.
Morning glories bleed white while, internally, Anthony bleeds.
The river has crashed through the dam,
for the heart cannot contain the turbulence of life
ripped from the place where nature works her slow
but steady miracle.
Morning glories bleed white; Adrian bled red.
One flower plucked in its prime, the other before her time,
while morning glories bloom on a hot summer's day.