Honest Reflections of a Manogre

A small patch of flowers, a mountain top glade slapped into twirls of magenta by cold rain~ voiceless but pleading for the purity of truth to be taken by {a} tender into the beating of dawn In sundream they'll play,black butterly and fawnheart tempering time untill dusk makes the crows bark, cackling where was the {us} when living turned to blood drowned the frolick of every prayer for tomorrow- was it a chain of slanted decisions,that minced the light bad luck (as when a dime slides from the ritze to the grate... maybe we met long ago, when we crawled from the sea took different directions by the will of a rogue breeze maybe we had parallel lives? made from the bones of wild planets of fire what happens when magenta meets black and blue [this is a good time to dust of the pallet-start mixing the hues], what colors do a rabid cyclone leave behind the texture of twisted stars, to be swallowed by the devil of devine? young butterfly remembers the innocense of light, when moonglow made love to the black lips of night. 'till a pack of knives slashed at its wings (ta hell with the good fight). ..now it no longer searches for mountain top flowers, or dreams in pools of magenta- it lies in the mud juggling broken eggs upon a pile of old dung- how in the hell can such a thing... love again. but their is a softness buried deep in this blaze of a runaway train hop on board if you will follow the reflection of manogre... to be cont.