The secret puzzle hidden in your name,
Is the most fragrant blossom I suppose,
The moon’s flow is apt for this grand bouquet,
Of magnificent works of hopeless prose.
Composed for the likes of your Higher Self,
Though prose could never offer true acclaim,
Repeating patterns of the number twelve,
Raises awareness, strange pains, and heartache.
Deriving from the heart space are visions,
Past the dense Earth’s air, they have not changed much,
Said events push forth by the Universe.
In His crazy Light, I gladly immerse.
my mind’s so full of strange designs
find it not of normal land
hand me to the gloomy shrines
which bind it to my frugal strand
the once benign awakening signs
find a shiny mind to slay
at once, I’ll pine for humored times
awakening signs atop the bay
A waterfall of spoiled ice falls out the don’s trade,
ripping petals, and breaking my stem away.
Do you have to be rough when you water a delicate flower? Can you manage the soil, support its growth in heavy, dire times? Why rub spices on the animal’s meat, when you don’t have to eat the meat? Why eat the animal’s meat? Why break a delicate flower? How can you rip my petals and yank my sprouting stem clean away?