This is not a trail of broken hearts;
Fallen crimson rose petals
Reminding me of each cycle
Lost and reborn
Sun and moon dance.
This is a ripening and maturing
A ferment and bottle conditioned
Led by the golden tears
Of Springs fresh showers.
A frosty morning
With birds calling from branches
Yet bearing,
And a sly cat whispering:
Good day Sir, come along.
It is not for the beat of my drum
It is for the beating of the sun
Cooked in red/yellow rays
Reminding me of an old letter
That came in the mail
Holding three dried rose petals
And one single ring
Caressed in my worn hands
Like a mother would
On the day that love did win
That shall come to pass.
What is the sadness we have in our life?
Work begun and living story;
A moment lost in peeling paint,
Lost as sand that blows.
When rhythm runs straight through thy soul,
Collapsing each fear in its spot.
Center my state around the pinnacle
Of rusting nail so beaten,
Cry again some sweet gold tears
Precious as rhododendron petals.