Bathed in light of Decembers noon,
a garden was once dressed in fuchsia
banners and faux flowered dunes,
that sook the love of trampled scilla.
Blissful winter read one visage,
lifeless though in clouds of white,
layed in tow of undressed foliage
left to bear her ultime blight,
and in hopeless near such manner
hopeful once of loves great spring,
grasping in one hand a banner
and in one hers both in string,
lay her betrothed lost at side
from the hate of those lost souls,
when was raped our angel bride,
until she could no longer dole.
Lips those painted with deep red
could kiss a garden red with ease
‘stead they leveed a river fed
from life’s intent to death appease.
Yet in that moment all the while
joy had spent its fleeting bloom,
goblets had not drank their wine
and violins had not left their tune,
as sorrow much like days of youth
waits for none to stop and stare,
seeks and hides all life in truth,
lays us all great dread to bear.
Though greater than us does it taunt
each glance of death’s upon life’s art,
the horror with which we instead haunt
it, death, until effervescence parts.
Bathed in light of Decembers noon,
Deign to draw, I! this divulging breath,
I draw compare too, pray of those needs,
yours, then mine, too our lives, zenith,
fate unto will, by fault doth leads.
Didst thou fail to gaze this way,
or ego faltered thy in that falling?
May thou endure forever I pray,
May thou live forever my darling.
Whence did I swear upon each branch,
to keepest count of all dying Robbins?
nor once didst thou relent thy staunch
culling of those joyful innocent sins.
Of all that I may draw thus now,
of life this end, of love this bow.
May thou live until the end of days,
I pray thou endure forever my grace.
Perhaps, some narratives are best left untold,
For more often than not, we do take for granted,
how tragic life is, when dark irony unfolds,
and miserable fates are, for those most coveted.
Countless of suns has a pure diamond seen,
and countless forgotten in the womb of its soil.
To coronations, to courts and wars it has been
yet to rest on its throne, it has made empires toil.
Graced a guillotine, and kissed a brothel floor,
adorned a tainted fleece, watched a hall aflame,
never loved, forever owned, present’s queen, tomorrows whore
always lying waking still, the unblamed, the unnamed.
Your only sin my hopeless dear, beauty is your only dress,
always left to watch the reigns,of nations grieving solace past.
Instead mourning helpless there, if laments you could possess,
as moaning harems do for now, and you, the tyrants save for last.
Truly, things most useless are, playing host, precious most,
and every lovely face does not, of akin beauty tale a’boast,
for those we envy are at best, those we pity by the end,
and that which we may lust for most, must Alas! to us attend.
Every time I see that child,
unfortunate and chided though,
walking on with a step so mild,
as if the last was the only low,
and all to come are only great,
but all I see is unsound hope,
all I hear is a hopeful gait,
and all I feel is a fateful rope
that pulls to tell him now and then,
exceeds the grasp of foolish men,
from all that they are worthy of.
But, still that child does only scoff,
“Flowers for a coin, Kindly Sir,
I have not eaten since yesterday”.
How these words within me stir,
the tears I held for a tragic play,
is not this child just like mine?
although behind the veil of pain,
his eyes may not as gayly shine
and sorrow is all that does remain.
But why must a flower sell flowers more,
and wilt when it must only bloom?
why must his visage yearn the fore
and aft of the sun that always looms?
Why does this child sell his fate
to live a life of bleak prospects,
if only he were born of late
or somewhere else in some respect,
he would not have to run barefooted,
to chase his dreams flying fast,
he would not have to face the cold,
and warm to the memory of summers past.
My child! Give me all those flowers,
and here is a penny more,
do not pray or give me thanks
I am no less a scoundrel sore,
for when I shall roll my window up,
and see my own blood next to me,
his innocent face my hands will cup,
and the wheels of misfortune you will see.
For all the flowers in the world,
and all their vendors sweet and lost,
can not fathom why some are hurled
cruelly into a destiny accost.
I see this child in my rearview,
his face lit with a vigor new,
if only he could know how true
the mother of fate for him did rue.