It’s weekend again.
The daisies, I divined;
Are still far-flung.
The simmering flush is quelling.
Maybe I fancy wrong.
I surely fancied.
The iris-esque neck—
whose thirst was steeped in soul;
The dandelion-like ploy—
whose deceit one yearned for;
And the luminous eyes—
whose description entails novel expression.
While aeon upon aeon of torture;
Has had passed unto;
Without any recourse,
but to tarrying and extinction.
The flaring glamour,
and the gleaming reflection
in the seared eyes—
seems to fade.
Tumult has wreaked what was left;
tremor is the only reminisce,
and lively as ever,
of the vice caused,
by the manifestation.
But then for how long?
How long it will take
To be free
in the prison of passion?