the wheels upstairs turning like flowers
each petal a story in the lights of the stars
thousands of loose filaments dangling about
each tender face - caressing each pointed nose
until the aroma of sanctity overwhelmed the march-
the fallen trunks to be ridden down
the muddled slopes of a new creation
bourne with the tears of the damned content
thrusting in her eyes - a ray of hope and a
liquid smile - it wasn't until the turning season
that the shape began to take-
the clapping of thunder awakens her
from her autumn doze
a porch swing and a white picket fence
the hummingbirds dripping buzz carried on autumns air
and like the magicians rabbit
it all disappears -
her small hands clutching the wind
like the scent of leaves rustled in a lawn
the precipice of winter looming in the broad
expanse of the childhood moor-
nothing is nil if everything is fodder-
the philosophy once spoke of candy thoughts to her
then locked away the flavour of dedication in a trunk
it was nothing more than that - but everything
more indeed - and it was there, upon that mound,
faith and fate planted their seeds -
it was there that future of life was born.
Birth sign: Scorpio
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