Insects layered lilac pedals upon her skin As if she was a nexus of nectar As if her body were the chalice of youth And all that dripped from her, made her a fountain That flooded the halls of fatherly time Leaving her ignorant of seconds, minutes, hours So why do the insects dress her like the flowers? Because to the ideal of a perfect plant, she is treason For she never decays in any season
I struggle to come to grips with the sheer beauty the muse has laid before me. Are all artists not merely insects?