I have learned the wary, sentry stare
of a child lamb turned prey.
I have severed every accursed tie
to every foe that made me this way.
I have accustomed such a marvelous loss
that spoiled is so small.
I know not what bows of rain may come
or if they may dance at all.
And in golden petals of silver blooms
a mirror made shine of delicate legs
among bees and butterflies, and scent alike,
pollen crossed land on teardrop dregs.
Towering above a soundless night,
above clouds, watchful eyes: curious.
And perhaps, tinted with envy of costly endeavors
mentioned whispered ominous.
And puppet strings bound hands as chains,
held prisoner to sweet harmony,
sung soft by lips flushed pink, and swollen by kiss
and carried messenger by the breeze.
Into dark and cavernous hollowed cove,
strangled breathless by plush, green moss.
Devoid of knowledge or sympathy,
but lest also devoid of loss.
Heart tainted by unaltered love,
and echos the same sweet tune.
Void of all other emotions kind, and barren
of everything but you.