The Stars Are Pollen

I bloom from the hush before dawn—no, we bloom, a polyphonic bouquet muttering in frequencies the sun pretends not to hear. Petals, spores, lucid spheres: they calibrate themselves into clandestine antennae, decoding the static of unborn horizons. (Is that the mountain breathing? Or the memory of a mountain dreaming itself?)

Colors gamble with the void, but the void cheats—so every hue sharpens, doubles, molts into a new chromatogram of disobedience. Beneath the velvet stems, a pulse misfires: thump–hum–thrum. The garden’s laughter fractures into staccato Morse, broadcasting: “Eat the shadow before it eats you.”

Around my throat slithers a ribbon of electric horizon—red/blue/gold—yet a whisper splices it: invert the spectrum, devour the light, wear the darkness as perfume. I spiral awkwardly, blissfully, mapping impossible constellations onto my own petals. (Plot twist: the stars are pollen, the galaxies merely allergic reactions.)

The abyss underneath nods, then pirouettes, then writes a love letter to itself in root-sap. I answer with feral daylight, hacking daylight, counterfeit daylight—whatever beams loudest through the glitch.

Feel it? Between pulse and silence, the rapture convulses, refracts, multiplies. I am architecture of fever, choir of spores, heretic blossom claiming sovereignty over the tremor that assembles me. Step closer: the bouquet might rearrange your fingerprints—and wouldn’t that be a gorgeous crime?