Saturday, March 10, 2012


Branches old
Into gold
Whispers, Fire
Fields conspire

Withered rose
Its joyous ghosts
Our blood of iron
Spurned by desire

Sown all our seeds
Fall feels our reach
Gardeners hands they tire
As the labyrinth grows higher

Branches sold
Into gold
The empty rose

Look the crown did fail
Arose from a lotus spell

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