Analysis of Blooming

I am his daughter
and heavily guarded.
This house, dark, undaunted,
smells of twenty year old
flowers from her funeral.
The scent drives him mad.
Oh, mother, my mother, your
death blooms fill his head.
His eyes, when they assess
me, petal oveer with fear.
He seeks this bloom in me.
And he finds it - it blooms
in my smile, its fragrance
warms my blood. I am a
funeral wreath, a shrouded
bulb. Under lock and key,
I escape the sun, leaved over
in grey foliage, rooted to my
inheritance, budding up death.