| *as nice as the stars, violets & lattes*

Misled Bless

Taken from the highs
Scraps of your wings
Bruises without notice
Like a sunburn grass

I redeemed my supra Zen
Within a sloppy column
My entry fee for wits
Pity, I’m filthy

Why, someone hides inside my
Host-cradle-hive
And ask an ear for a gift
Is charity that wry?

A heartfelt torment
I pushed on toward
The sickness of my find
Is felicity taking no grant?

The clouds are whispering
Answers within Riddles
In thunderous arousing
“Ask not, it has been given to you.”

But a foul body lasted
In a hallowing light
And the Fool was shred
By a crescent night

The mystery was not
Meant as easy gain
And violin strings… sad…
The Eight Arms, has it play

Author’s note:
Written before 2006 (personal portfolio / poetry.com), the content of the poetry itself has always tickled my curiosity, until the beautiful represented artwork from Michael Divine as the image above, completed the mystery puzzle. 🙂

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