A tapestry of green grass hair
runs thick beneath a maiden's thigh,
the luscious drops of golden daylight
ordained with the fruits of colors,
and the warmth in melodic, silver chimes -
A beckon to the elusive ether
blanketed amongst the skies.
Dew drops in quiet ecstasy,
the weaving sheaves of baby's breath,
a softness is a masseuse to the eyes
and dwindling clouds of innocence…
Circle the iris, so opaline
a lush soul jewel,
a pristine twin of serpentine.
It is how you view the blades of growth
and whether you are deified or victimized.
The pupil is bitter, stone cold and blind
to all but the steady beat of light.
Irony chipped in window panes,
in the shedding pigments of the sky.
Perception morphs the wicked
into a diamond net of life.
Your lashes brush aside you demons,
or entreat them to enter in;
but rapture is just a fragrance
born by noonday's whims.
