Black tulips on the marbled floor
have no place here.
They remind others of how we existed
suitable only for that dark journey,
by those deemed more worthy,
under whose azure skies,
only their abodes could shimmer
for we can have no part .

Leaves mottled in their separateness
turn our seasons  
into days of lanquidity,
out stretched briars
tear at the stolen codex.
surmising exoteric warnings,
that magpies again steal,  
under whose inciting  night
can we wade this walkway.