Spirit those dewy flowers in it
A silent secret you told your spirit-
In the waking hours the speech of those
Will laugh at that which is dull and dewy.
The untamed and untrained worldly flowers
That so haplessly grow and die young in
Wicked winters- the hours define it.
Yet there exists not a reason for it
To compromise with a soulless spirit.
Quarrelling with conflict dwelling deeper in
The accent of sorrow suffered by those
Who shrivel and fold as the world flowers-
Heaven is cursed and the night is dewy.
What encompasses thought is both dewy
And dry. What so menacingly sought it
Sprouts with the tear of that which so flowers
Every year and takes the ghastly spirit
That has trampled apart each one of those
Who fight to be free and close their world in-
To clusters that breed solace and dread in
A mind that is grasping for a dewy
Star speak violent metaphors to those
In my head- cloud the night- yearning that it
May awaken the dead so my spirit
Will weaken that which longingly flowers.
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