Fresh entity deceived me of late;
I faltered forward upon jagged toes.
My soul was once an open gate,
now drawn shut to ward off hate.
Betrayed by the aroma of sweet repose,
then pricked and left by mistaken rose.
Her stem bleeds bitter. Having tasted pain,
she has spurned felicity.
Lying in wait to parch the soil,
oblivious to her own demise,
her karma has led to clearer skies.
Forthwith sweet Mother earth embroiled,
nimiety of roots dried and spoiled;
she shrivels up and dies.
Copyright © Chris Patton