leave me in the garden to die. i will not let you save me- leave me alone with the dead leaves of autumn, with the coldness of winter settling in my bones. i don't want to be saved- leave me along the dead and decayed and come back to bury me in the spring. i have left to find death, to pick it's flowers and to finally rest.
One day I will meet my end. Will your face fade from my eyes? I lay buried with you in my heart. The circling sun and moon come together in a line. Abstinence and honesty lose their grip. I die bit by bit seeing the quiver of your lip. O beloved, I implore you to give me your heart. Standing on the other shore, longing to reach you.
is this what it feels like to be a fossil in the making? to have pebbles, sand and grit swept slowly on top of me. not to mention the crushing and deafening of miles of water pressing it all down to bury me.
but sometimes sometimes there's relief and light when someone digs through the weight to reveal the shadow of the creature that once lay there. but then that husk is reduced to cinders in a mountain of others. and i guess you could say that 'power station' is adulthood. or life.
On every alluring mountain peek where the soil has buried it deep there is a heart somewhere up there hiding from everyone's reach the rubble the rock the rugged roads the cliffs the falls the thorns the height the struggle the effort differs from one to another from bumps to dunes to spires the struggle doth differ much but if the climbers mind sees no other peek then for sure your heart will be found.
A love buried in the depth of the earth skipping the grave that can be lit up and the bottom of the sea water billows out of this abyss netting the eyeballs of the sky. Then the bottom of the night was skipped likewise.
Taring the shades of black there the moon rolls out in the enchanting half-light. So it had to be tucked away only at the bottom of the earth.
Everything the all-inclusive pi could pop up from that safe womb there that carries the weight of the matters but never shows up an equating pattern!
The nightingale scurries to the red rose bubbling on the morning tessera as if it mined out the treasure of the earth! Oh it doesn't seem to be the only one scorer upon the rose a mirror is up in the sky ‘Love’ is in the eyes of the sun!