When Wintertime Extends Its Icy Grip Upon The Garden Of Your Heart

What was an ocean of shifting opportunity is ejected into space as steam,

a threshold surpassed by the devastation of her unforgivable revelations

(sparse skies, thin clouds that trail like pensive afterthoughts).

 

Serendipity remains apparent but only as a ruse,

the color of red for the maniacal bull,

a killing sword hanging high above,

for she can only be that which gravity demands,

a mountain that lands in showers of busted clumps,

the fragrance of upturned earth smacking with familiarity

(crimson oxidation lines spill like blood,

riding upon the chilly currents of tomorrow).

 

All the leaves have decayed,

inert DNA awaiting inspection and introspection;

the power of life dribbled down a clumsy chin,

the fertility of well-kept soil usurped by a riot of weeds climbing a rusty gate,

ever waiting to be struck by the shadow of her stooping form

as she leans over to pick a single flower that shall never return home.

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