Nightshade

This crimson bloom
It flowered thus
It drank the moon
And ran with pus
It shrank too soon
And smelled of rust
It grew in dying meadows

This tiny flower
Ever frail
With fragrance sour
Thorns like nails
It blooms one hour
Then it fails
Between the weeds and nettles

This withered weed
With fragile stem
From blackened seed
And earth condemned
On ash it feeds
And dearth depends
Where loss is rife, it settles

This brittle thing
With ichor sap
To gloom it clings
And light it traps
It bites and stings
It grows in gaps
There’s poison in its petals

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