Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the lake,
There was a peony.
Amidst a solitary night, bound by sorrow,
I Inquire the peony.
For whom do you shed your petals and leaves,
for whom do you bloom?
Taking a stroll through the mountains with my friend,
We saw a peony, its petal glitter in specks of snow,
Buds that were the blossoms of springs.
That day we questioned the flowers,
But the flowers do not speak.
Alas, our questions remained unanswered.
Colors looking like they were applied excitedly
with random abandon
are seen to be beautiful as they dry
They were well planned
It is serene
Satisfying even to gaze at
again and yet again
the infinite white to red hues, all those infinite pinks
encircling the centering theme
As peaceful as bare skin on damp green moss
on a warm Summer night
Tucked in peony petals
Foretell lovely doom
© LadyRavenhill 2018
I strain to return to myself—
a peony dewy-eyed, unbeknownst to
the bittersweet taste of your chocolate eyes,
yet biting into it
while you watch.
I dared to do that.
I became your dream
with my pure red mouth,
You wanted to listen some more, didn’t you?
But then, that is all you ever did:
nothing more, nothing less,
and look what you’ve done;
My heart crumbled into pomegranate seeds—
I pick them up on my knees,
smear my mouth with them,
staining it red
as I eat them.
I pretend they are remnants of
the good girl I used to be,
white peony petals.
I don’t want you any longer;
I want her back.
She has a heart of cedar color
And dreams in shades of peony and lotus stems.
She leaves the smell of cyclamen and ripe apricots
Those who are crying in the shadows of Magnolias
Are finding a shelter within her.
Sometimes I imagine that I'm the sea foam
That is touching her ankles
And the air that envelops her lips,
Absorbing her every move,
That is reflected in the mosaic of her pupils.
Her thoughts are sleeping in the depths of my veins,
In every pore that absorbs her voice
I can hear her breathing.
I remain frozen in her existence
And in the contours of her shadow,
All of what I have seek so far
I have found in every thing on which she brushed.
I'm just a pale reflection of the stars
In her night sky,
The dying firefly in her garden
Of white poppies and wild rose hips.
Just pure desperation.
— The End —