Infinity Daydreams towards Affinity
In the quiet hush of dawn's embrace,
a soft sigh escapes the mitred lips of mourn.
As delicate flower crumbles to my hand
like a sand of time, returns to it's Mother borne.
Each fabricate petal a grave-layer, a memory shed
like a piece of me,
bleeds from every stem, cell of a lost hour,
a reminisce to devour,
as the viper enters the Garden as if it were a lair,
a den of thieves that weevles a harvest
or weasels the seed. in an outbreak of Spiritual
Leprosy from the World of media zombies
of sorceries median mean,
in the perversity of being taken and letting go,
of what used to be, what if's- Garden of Gethsemane.
What if
Nature aided me and a quest begins this very Eve?
Categories:
mitred, art,
Form: Rhyme