The orb now hangs, suspended between whispers of twilight, soliloquizing to a reflection beyond one’s grasp—
unveiling truths corrosive like the subtle tendrils of the lurking creeper vine.
And yet in equal measure furnishing our breath with the synesthesiac fragrance
of pollen anointed by the velvet brush of a sleeping bumblebee.
What eternal networks plait our intentions
below those fragmented skies?
Decay, my kin, serves us rosewater before syrupy delusion.
In profound bleakness thrives an alien garden;
twining tales around, silenced vows sculpted in clay.
Every unfolding petal harbors splinters of forbidden fathoms—metallic hum of whispering rust piercing
bloons filling the vault of solace.
Undress the layers of juvenile stars, oh weeping golden cosmos;
an astral dance pirouettes next to mortal frame, paling against surviving streaks
of a dawn yet to emerge alongside perdition,
inviting bitter sweet truth with chrysanthemum wine.