quaint mantle
to hold a bouquet of wonders,
to feel connected to something
your own hands desire to see
— sometimes, we have to dedicate
the meaning of our lives for that.
a heaven full of angels,
where god dictates poems:
pens with divine feathers
write my fate down with crimson ink.
a stroll down the valley,
where all of nature blossoms:
my eyes try to capture it all
so I can search for the worlds wonder.
only one flower existed in my mind:
a fragile, ethereal floret
which was pushed by life,
a little too far.
seeing its dried petals,
my heart broke.
I allowed its thorns to pierce my skin,
so my ichor could water that beauty.
even if my life becomes an ornament of that care,
even if my fate becomes one with its display
I will praise that bouquet like a bible
for when I look out for flowers
I see nothing but ruin:
as my heart is eternally yearning
for a single rose, which I
call my dearest.
young leaf
keen fox