The Garden Must Envy

Watchful gardens, vigilant grow,
tread thy touch men high and low.
Falling chaos, thunderous sound,
a stark truth which doth redound.
Bathed in blood, flushed with green,
light and darkness thou hath seen.
Many a’season hath thou stood,
yearning sentience, innate though good.
O! poor welcome of the living,
ponder I upon thy misgiving.
The walk of all men thy abode,
paths and endings, serve thy ode.
Live to watch, breathe to bury,
envy the fallen, thou wilt with hurry.

May I Envy The Blossom

Amidst a flurry of dropping blossoms pale,
I watch these moth wings fragrant so much
turning white in a lifeless sail,
the arms and branches praying as such.
In wait for autumn, the progeny of colors,
while patiently all the watchful turn old.
Would it be too much, to envy the pallor
of fleeting lovers drifting in the cold?
An empty shade, with receding light,
another hour has come and gone,
another moment, the blossoms in flight,
fallen, found love, waiting, found dawn.

Left To Weep, And Envy Thy Rest.

In the valleys so dark, and skies that rue,
I see my nation, my people, my children,
among their legacy, but mingles the hue,
of a purpose left wasted in egos belligerent.
More than their joys, I have witnessed tears,
miserable reminders how fallen they are,
but more than their patience, indolence I fear
has led them to slumber ignominiously par.
Seeing them defeated, something is awake,
a pondering, curious figure of black,
a visage so horrid, I turn for Gods sake,
and look to my east, yet it looks to my back.
Its gentle steps I can hear, not wanting
and its fingers pondering through the very skin
of every shadow standing silent and taunting,
but holding its breath as if living were a sin.
Its serpentine tongue slithering at my feet,
watchful its gaze, while scratching the soil,
and the fuming horns being thus from the heat
while its whipping tail now drops from a coil.
The bleeding crows that hang from the boughs,
I imagine the fear now frozen in their eyes
must also be prevalent in my own that bow
down to the dust where my destiny lies.
My flesh being torn at the seams of its ponder,
hot blood dangling from the vines of its crown,
and all the while it is I who must wonder,
when will the insatiable beast fall down.
I embrace you, my curse, my wound, my fall,
feed to your fill, until I have withered away,
I forgive you, my nation, my people, my all,
rest from a caprice until the end of all days