Sweet Hour of Life

Shelter lies dormant to its beckoning call, In ellusive formation in a dream Colors in elaborate decorum which bleed Trees in tormented flight with arched husks; In clever ambiance a spool of thread Shattered by darkness proned to fear With desolate madness in vanquished tear; Such were the promises in ardent spring, Chimes of cold bells would ring; Vanquished from the burden of the innocence in flight Aloof, to weak willed vile intention; Would seek to learn at my next confession, Words in elaborate decayed form; In bitter silence to its beckoning call, Our dreams are not enough through ivy briars; Thorns in desolate persuasion, In damnable heresy proned to desolation; Yet to view a butterfly in flight with parched sphere Often the sequence of thought is clogged by that of compromises Twisted message within its sequential valiant, With thick briars torn to bitter ashes sway; Tempted in the inner torn muck of persuasion.