<h2 id="poem-of-the-week-flowers-of-bone" data-toc-id="poem-of-the-week-flowers-of-bone" class="font-editorial font-bold mb-2 mt-4 [.has-inline-images_&amp;]:clear-end text-lg first:mt-0 md:text-lg [hr+&amp;]:mt-4" style="font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.2;">Poem of the Week: “Flowers of Bone”</h2>Poem (with implied stanza breaks):Flowers of BoneThe river of epiphanies has been littered with flowers of boneThe calcification infests the body of water while Microchip fantasies manifest in third eye nullification<ul class="marker:text-quiet list-disc pl-8"><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0"></li></ul>Broken axle screeches to the axis of Hypnotic suggestion Stop, HaltGlass shatters in the distance Teeth grinding, mixing cement on an abandoned highway to critical thinkingSensuality has all but split as seraphim spit the seeds of solitude upon the psycheThe river of epiphanies has been littered with flowers of bone<hr><h2 id="what-i-was-trying-to-do" data-toc-id="what-i-was-trying-to-do" class="font-editorial font-bold mb-2 mt-4 [.has-inline-images_&amp;]:clear-end text-base first:mt-0" style="font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.2;">What I was trying to do</h2>This poem came from a misheard Cure lyric that my mind turned into “flowers of bone” and refused to give back. That mishearing became the central metaphor: those flowers of bone are broken memory fragments scattered across the riverbed of my mind—what it feels like when I’m depressed, stagnant, and “bereft of thought.” It’s my way of writing about writer’s block and depressive boredom without ever using those words.I wanted to capture that philosophical but brutally concrete sensation of mental calcification: when the river of epiphanies—the place where insight and language usually flow—is clogged with hard, dead matter. It’s not just “I can’t think of anything”; it’s an almost physical sense that creativity has fossilized inside me. The poem tries to make that inner paralysis real and tangible enough that anyone who’s felt stuck can see themselves in it.<hr><h2 id="craft-choices-and-how-they-embody-blocked-depressi" data-toc-id="craft-choices-and-how-they-embody-blocked-depressi" class="font-editorial font-bold mb-2 mt-4 [.has-inline-images_&amp;]:clear-end text-base first:mt-0" style="font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.2;">Craft choices and how they embody blocked, depressive mind</h2><ol class="marker:text-quiet list-decimal pl-8"><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">“River of epiphanies” and “flowers of bone” The opening metaphor sets the stage: your mind as a river where epiphanies should flow, now “littered with flowers of bone.” Flowers are usually soft, alive, fragrant; here they’re skeletal, brittle, dead. This inversion captures the horror of ideas that used to feel alive now sitting as relics. The repetition of this image at the end turns it into a refrain, a closed loop—exactly what depression feels like.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Calcification and third‑eye nullification “The calcification infests the body of water” is almost medical language dropped into a spiritual image. Calcification is the slow hardening of tissue; here, it’s the slow hardening of thought. “Microchip fantasies manifest in third eye nullification” pushes that further: the technologies and fantasies that should extend perception instead shut it down. Third eye nullification is such a precise way to say: my intuition, my visionary self, has gone offline.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Mechanical and industrial imagery for mental fatigue The second section switches to machines: “Broken axle screeches,” “Glass shatters,” “mixing cement on an abandoned highway.” These aren’t gentle images; they’re industrial failures. The “abandoned highway to critical thinking” suggests that the route to clear thought was once built but is now unused, overgrown, being concreted over by grinding teeth. It’s burnout rendered as infrastructural decay.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Seraphim and solitude: spiritual overtones of isolation “Sensuality has all but split / as seraphim spit the seeds / of solitude upon the psyche.” The seraphim here aren’t comforting angels; they’re almost punitive. They scatter the “seeds of solitude,” turning what could be sensual experience into spiritual isolation. It’s a blunt statement of how depression can hollow out both body and spirit, leaving you with an almost holy loneliness.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Fragmented syntax as mental static The syntax throughout is slightly disjointed, stitched together by line breaks rather than complete sentences. That fragmentation mirrors the feeling of thought that can’t complete itself—ideas that begin, screech, and stall. The poem doesn’t offer narrative clarity; it offers a collage of images, which is exactly how depressive, blocked cognition often feels from the inside.</li></ol><hr><h2 id="how-you-can-use-this-as-a-readerwriter" data-toc-id="how-you-can-use-this-as-a-readerwriter" class="font-editorial font-bold mb-2 mt-4 [.has-inline-images_&amp;]:clear-end text-base first:mt-0" style="font-size: 24px; line-height: 1.2;">How you can use this as a reader‑writer</h2>If you’re trying to write about boredom, stagnation, or creative block:<ul class="marker:text-quiet list-disc pl-8"><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Start from a misheard lyric or phrase that sticks in your mind and follow its imagery instead of correcting it.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Build one strong metaphor for your inner state (river, highway, machine) and show how it decays—calcifies, cracks, stalls.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Let the language oscillate between spiritual (third eye, seraphim) and mechanical/industrial (axles, cement, highways) to reflect how burnout touches both soul and nervous system.</li><li class="py-0 my-0 prose-p:pt-0 prose-p:mb-2 prose-p:my-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:pt-0 [&amp;&gt;p]:mb-2 [&amp;&gt;p]:my-0">Don’t force resolution; allow the poem to end where it began, on the same image, if that’s the truth of how stuck you feel.</li></ul>“Flowers of Bone” is that honest loop: the mind trying to move, the river wanting to carry epiphanies again, and the poet standing on the bank, naming the fossils until they finally begin to shift.

Weekly Poem Breakdown - "Flowers of Bone" by Adam Levon Brown

Craft choices and how they embody blocked, depressive mind

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Weekly Poem Breakdown - "Flowers of Bone" by Adam Levon Brown

Weekly Poem Breakdown - "Flowers of Bone" by Adam Levon Brown

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