Let me tell you the tale of a man
whose orchids would not bloom.
He crouched in the pale dark soil
and sifted his hands through.
Their frail exotic bodies
were ripe with unspoken whispers.
Doubts began to assail his
careless, dubious ego.
Each day he waited as for the mail
for some silken portent.
A lone snail crept up the stems
and was crushed in a lusting fist.
He watched as a hail of tears
ran their fingers through the leaves.
Impaling weeds lapped up
whatever they found between the stalks.
As failure haunted his eyes,
he felt his blood trickle, thick and warm.
