Inheritance

O Rose, thou art sick
with howling, crimson joy
that burns our buildings,
kills our nurslings.

Such rapacious joy
cannot be suffered to endure.
Planted within you, O Rose,
the seeds of your demise.

Invisible worms,
we fly in the night
and our dark, secret love
shall thy life destroy.

This cocoon
is our becoming
and all things crimson
our inheritance.