Day 56 of 150 Days of Flowers, Ninety-Four to Go.
This is a black iris Vesta and I met on our morning walk. I found a poem I really like to go with the photograph, but sadly, I don’t know and can’t find out who wrote it. It’s a wonderful poem though. It’s got revenge, death, temptation and beauty in it and it makes you think.
Black Iris
Black iris cometh to bloom,
pollen of death,
strangling roots.
Once come to full breath,
under dangerous, dark full moon.
Streak of red,
blood split from the dead
hang lowly their heads
stoop to smell their unsmelling death.
Oh the dangerous beauty
the black, black iris.
Black is the collection of sin,
It spilith over unto the ground.
Miles out
see naught but black.
For so are the sins of men.
Like a lazy cat,
spread out in the sun.
Like time,
never does it end.
Like the second hand,
never stops.
Does the iris grow.
Like a person bent on revenge,
never sated.
Has within the source of death,
death strikes out once it blooms.
Dangerous temptation, beauty too.
Tantalizing to pick
Black iris out of gloom.