Amaryllis Tongues, Iris Sabers, Budding Hyacinths

Last few days I lay in bed drowning in medications and phlegm and nausea and aches, all brought down by basic allergies, all over-reacting to pollen-shifting tides in the atmosphere. I slept for almost a full forty-eight hours, mumbling in tongues as the hours drifted overhead in a steady procession, a quick medieval masque with drums and fife, flags and fire eaters. The drums were prophetic, strange incantations, yet on the whole forgettable.

•76/ His green house burgeons with a plethora of blossoms, constellations charted across the room, the territory of his understanding, his scope: amaryllis tongues, iris sabers, budding hyacinths. The faun lost in his element.
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