If I were a flower, I’d be voluptuous carnation
Folding arcana made of rust and glinting tears
In my persisting blossom, sepulchral adulation
On that ultimate journey when no more fears
Seep into the fragile bones’ gist. But I can be not.
And all I can promise, I cannot be your best shot.
(As not target or arrow, but arch I’m aiming at.)