SHE is young.  

The one who roams amongst pink roses, oh crush
oh must of doves;  the fortress of a high ceiling sun, and then
she speaks through a flute of wild wind and separates the clouds
from the rain.  

    My skin, my heart, my eyes are filled with cherry blossoms
and only then and only then I realize I am spurting from my heart.

  i smell the smell of fallen water as drops upon thirsty dirt;
i hear i feel the thunderous hoofbeats of raging horsemen,
dreams filled with velocities and misfortunes.

    i see i see the bloody roses and thorn knives cut flesh
who rides a beast of Love with an apple and goblet of wine
   because i am a poet of words and words and emotions
that can never die.  Broken wings that are twisted charis
waiting for a winter, and the dead dove, with love.

:: 10.10.2020 ::

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love... View all posts by EPRobles

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