~ A Song ~

~ A Song ~

Let I be buried,
Where he shalt be …

And bury me, thou
With pretty parchments
Of colors, shapes and sort
Lest he be finicky!

And shalt I wait upon him,
Impatience and locks tucked
One in heart, other behind earlobes …
Flowering hymns and a song
Ere he comes!

I may croon to myself,
My song; not for thine ears but!

My beloved shalt come morrow,
Knowing his fair dame
Hath waited for him,
With Virgin notes of a Song!

Rose!

Rose!

And the misdemeanor 
Of the garish
Importunate wind,
Made me disdain
The creative hands
Those hallowed
Every mosaic of happenings
Around me.

I separated,
Falling off my twig
And my sighs dangled
From the branch,
Pain in incantations,
Disembodied.
I seethed, and foully remarked.

I had every probable reason,
To cower,
And curse thus so sour
While the conceited wind
Hovered, howled and guffawed.
I loathed it further more …

Was I born, only to remain
A Bud such closed,
And rot on the bed of soil
To serve as the mellow fellow,
Feeding the parasites?
With no memoirs, of course!

Air stirred slyly, and then,
I felt your hands on me!
Peeling me, thenceforth
Your foundling - 'an enclosed I'
And lo! My entrails when gone,
I saw my soul, you were to hone!

You taught me,
To become a brazen Flower
Embracing its nakedness,
No more imprisoned in garb of petals!
My arcane mystic lover,
I disrobe to dispel
My inhibition and annoyance!

Pluck me, now you,
Releasing me from this enmesh.
I am your Shrubbery Rose
With guiltless scented thorns,
Standing ever and anon thus so bare,
Enlightened toward my whole!