Cactus and Poems!

I buried my poems
With my body
In a barren dream
And plant a cactus
Above the insoluble grave
Of fear!

Next morning
I found myself with sprouts of thorns,
Thorns, everywhere
In my chest, everywhere
In the body, for every hair;
And the poems
They resurrect
As thorns!

Of each poem I betrayed
There is a thorn, and
They grew like quaint dreams
Of December, and
My poems with every concoction
In its easy demeanor and
Craven of weary words, hushed:
‘My body is still buried,
Dreaming and still worshiping visitors;
In dreams, in a vainly wrought coffin
Of hope, for a future yet to impregnate!’