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Beatrice Prior Oct 2018
I have an interesting flower in my garden,
One that is the embodiment of beauty, but refuses, strangely,
To accept its wondrous colours.

I have an interesting flower in my garden,
That sprouts some throrns sometimes.
They ***** me, and I bleed,
But my constantly beaming flower,
Always has a comeback.

Some days my little flower wilts,
With guilt and the feeling,
That many have come and stomped on her.
But still my evergreen flower,
Overgrows and blooms beyond.

I have an interesting flower in my garden,
Whose scent gives me air.
A sweet wallowing nectar,
Flows past her ocean of petals...
And to my little flower,
I appear a loving bee.
Beatrice Prior Oct 2018
They astound me, thine eyes,
Filled with such glorious emotion,
That even when they overfill,
They smile at me.

Thy voice, like nectar to a bee's throat,
Speaks of wondrous words,
Of majestic tales and heart felt lores,
And they escape your smiling lips.

And a fragrance so sweet blows my way,
To fill me with an indescribable ecstasy,
And gently wafts back and forth,
As you hold me in your gaze.

Therefore stand evermore by my side,
As I attempt to match your prints,
For the mark you left on me,
Only God knows I can't rinse.
Beatrice Prior May 2018
Flowers, flowers and more pretty flowers.
That's all one ever thinks about Spring.

What about Thorns, I ask?
But no one seems to hear me.
All they want to know about is the Rose.

As the Spring I feel compressed,
Obstructed by the Strain of the stretching length.
Crushed by the load of impounding Stress.

But, I am a Rose.

My fragrance spreads joy to a billion others,
But no one releases me from the Thorn that binds me.

They're scared they say,
And I don't blame them.
For I beat myself to become this Rose.

So I stand, as Spring does,
Watched by a million eyes.

I bounce when the Stress of Summer arrives,
To live carefree another day.

Only to realize I've trampled on the Thorn.
The Thorn that Strains to cut the Rose away.
Beatrice Prior May 2018
He was always after me.

I felt him tapping on my mother's belly,
As curled smaller and tighter with the noose around my neck.
He let me go then,
But still,
I didn't dare breathe.

He hid in the shadows and waited for fate,
Took me to the lake,
Told me beautiful lies,
And when I swam in the ocean of happiness,
He held my arms by my side.
He let me go then,
But still,
I didn't dare breathe.

He waited patiently yet again,
And bade his time by taking my family,
I saw many white-washed walls,
Chained and imprisoned against my will.
He let me go then,
But still,
I didn't dare breathe.

He had wings of fury,
And burnt everything I had dreamed,
I was scarred and sacrificed,
But I rose from the ashes.
He let me go then,
But still,
I didn't dare breathe.

Now I'm kicked out,
Standing on thorns of suffering,
He called me again, he did.
He held me close this time,
Planted a kiss on my forehead.

I was wrong about him.
When the world gave me suffering,
He offered me salvation.

*Hey Death,
Come with a smiling face,
And embrace me forever,
With Your glorious arms.
Beatrice Prior Apr 2018
Everyone loved meandering to the Clearing,
Outlined by long snaky tendrils of golden grass.

The sun dips behind the meadow there,
Casting a purifiying blaze through the bearing breeze.

The baobab was still there, standing proud in the spotlight,
And we could do nothing but clamber, dreams in hand,
As we hoped the bough still held our weight.

The sun spun its final fiery wisp,
And buried itself deep in sand.

The fire gently licked the wood beneath us,
As we played with the ball of light in our hand.

One can always hear the soft purr of the leopard,
And the laughter of the hyena at the tears of the jackal,
If one only listened hard enough,
Like we did.

Finally the unaknowledged kings would appear,
And capture our eyes with their own twinkles.

We always lay awhile,
Holding hands and pointing with our leftover fingers,
At constellations that could only be seen in the deepest hour.

We would doze carelessly,
Leaving to Nature the breadth of our fall.

But instead of slipping away quietly,
Leaving only our little ball tied to the bark,
A dark hole swallowed us.

Mankind had taken it all.
Beatrice Prior Feb 2018
A thin lining
Of a cloud, of dreams, of hopes.

Some are woven like buttons
And dinners and diamonds,
Like quilts
Of bursting candies and flowers.

A patchwork tapestry of wonderful colours and patterns,
A mix of darks and brights,
Sown of various styles,
Not to mention of different size

If and when the button rips,
And when or if the quilt tears,
We pardon not the makers of dreams,
But forget the hopes that was promised then.

Isn’t it strange?

The threads are woven in different ways,
And yet.
We fail to realize how loosely the threads are hanging.
Beatrice Prior Feb 2018
Your darkness shimmers with a million lights,
Millenia it will take to sought those glitters.
And yet you,
proving patience a virtue yet,
silently watch as dreams float in your wake.

I called upon your mysterious presence,
Wandering alone in your thoughtful gaze.
You sought me and brought her here,
And for that,
I thank you.

I will rest beneath your shelter,
And hope to see your eyes.
But another love will bade my time,
And tide shall make your twinkles disappear.

I would ask you to tarry a while,
And yet I know you must be on your way.
For when the other light arrives,
Everyone sings his praise.

And so you'll leave me be,
Holding your gift in my arms,
With a silent prayer,
Of your stay.

For tomorrow, dear knight,
I know you'll find me again.
And sing a song of dreams.

Until then, let me sleep,
Holding your present in your wake.
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