Turquoise, Dying.

There in the vines
running down my spine,
are overgrown vistas,
and rooted enigmas
of the mind.

At my wrist —
the burning kissed;
pools in my palms;
red water of painful psalms
shrouded in mist.

Heme-less, desired;
nature, devoured;
draining forget-me-nots
won’t clot.
My nymph has retired.