There lies a flower,
Flooring the phallic phenomena,
Pasteurised in polemic patterns,
A paradise cooled.
Uniforms unifying underlying,
Tick tick ticketing the fumbling noise,
As a flower fulminates asleep.
Folded planets figuratively feathered.
Angling aimlessly upwards.
Foursome the foresome forces the fierce
Farcical foundations fantasised flowers
Algernorn asked in the literary form
Forms the fantasy we find.
And in this flower fantasied
Fancies me, formulaic probability,
And I catch the flower,
Our petals professing,
Pagantries tepidly tyrannies
Ties to the sovereignty.
What was the flower, fine flower,
Where was the flower, fine flower,
Faced fulgent flower factorised,
Penalised, foliates focalised.
Flowering fidelities fascinatingly focused,
And now it’s undressed.
Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man and sometime writer. He lives in Glasgow, having written from the perspective from Cork, Madrid and Prague. He has written for OutlawPoetry, VadaMagazine and FromTheLighthouse.