worry too much
About growing this rose
"Will it bloom?... " I wonder
"Under its storming foes?

"What will it take?" I ask
"To grow that precious seed?"
"For it to grow and rise?"
I know the answer, "it's the God that I heed."

Stop smothering it in the filth
Of your own despair
Bath instead, in the light
For the more you force it, the more scars you bare.

the delicate blossoming
of budding flowers, secretes
poisonous ardor. tainted by
the loving thorns of death,

my veins carry nocuous nectar.
and demeter wails, her garden
polluted and infused with ichor
deadly. and weeds rampage,

absorbing my heart's nutrients.
till inseminated with a plethora
of nightshade and datura.
my body now a mere vessel

of your deathly grove of misery,
delicately blooming dark myrtle.
a lost soul in my fields of mourning.

feline tot
on the prayer of a rose
soars the alchemist's whine

It starts with his beautiful bright blue eye,
So steady and sure as the wings flutter and sigh.
They keep watch of the life below,
The nectar and the flowers that grow
A forest of colours, red to indigo.

Now, when the eyes shutter and blink,
The flowers look up and they think,
'Here is our dazzling friend,
Come here to dance and defend,
And to our gardens tend'.

Here, it whispers to a mother and child
Remembering all the times that they smiled
To each other and held hands
To help the child thrive and withstand
The winter's harshest command.

The mother waves and the child shakes
In excitement and down fall the flakes
Of yellow but quickly goes the protector
Gathering the pieces and the nectar
And hurrying back to inspect her.

Often people suspect that this pest
Eats the flowers and destroys their nest
But little do they know of why
The mother flower strokes the pest's eye.
You see butterflies don't just flutter by.

They have a duty and a burden
To protect the flowers of their garden
And see that everything is safe and sound
Down there on the ground.

There was a witch
In the meadow near the forest
Living in a tiny house
With walls of woods
And roof of grass

There was a witch
Dressed in black
Picking Chamomile,
Sage and Thyme,
Rosemary, and Mint and Chives

There was a witch
Dancing in the night
When the moon was high
And the stars all out
Singing a song that no one knew

And I couldn’t help to wish to be that witch
For she lived happy and simple

as autumn plants her feet,
cities burst into smoke, shades
and silence, until I can only sit
& grieve as a ruby-dream fades

into the mist; tell me this is earth
breaking feasts to mark the birth
of our bond, tell me this remains
the season where hearts rain

like leaves as they, as we, fall
in love beneath golden trees
& we'll only need to loosen our all
to cling tighter than we please;

tell me that when the perils flee,
you'll return, arms open-- tell me.

Love's vine stems from the heart;
it is ivy creeping through iron gates.
Wanders free through stony soil,
rushing stream, and bank.
It can loiter in the garden,
and fall victim to the spring rain.
But do not despair, my dear,
for its passion is like a flame:
Forever burning in its tendrils,
its coiled roots and leaves;
survives environs menace,
summer's blaze, and winter's freeze.