The Festered Wound

I’ll feed you field notes from a festered wound,
of how death impressed a desert bloom.
In a mess, invested,
more or less pests entombed.
Slowly sidestepping elephants,
left ingesting rooms.
When life moves a million miles an hour,
you can watch from the window,
but you’ll miss most the fuckin flowers.
So slow down,
approach the day with broken frowns.
Cuz if it ain’t broke it don’t need fixing,
and without a searchlight,
you won’t find what’s missing.