Creating creative creatures,
Consisting comparatively in our own minds,
Divine intercourse,
Indulged in our own demise,
Counting stars,
That clarify our consciousness,
Condolences to our counterparts,
That we so graciously guaranteed,
Grandiosity in the beards of stocky men,
Queens docked their divisions,
On cold stairways,
A cross from the throne,
They called their home,
Deceptive desires crept nearer,
To the garden of information,
A summer of dreams,
Wearily washed away in passion,
The golden lips were worst than the apple,
For its nectar tasted sweeter in the moment,
Men make magic disappear,
To the temporary purpose for temptation,
To toil in the world that was ours.
About the Creator
Veronica
I am the moss silken on watered stones, rooted deep in rich soil. Earthen creature, I am the night sky -starry and strayed from the forgotten path of poets - I am, the chatter from the iron rails rattling as the train carries itself home.
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