Oh how many masks you wear, terrible one!
With every face of beast,
Slithering, crawling, roaring, calling,
What now? What treat?
Your offering ever so sweet!
A slave you make of me,
Chained I follow into the abyss,
Oh Father, devour me not,
I long escape this awful hiss,
I pray I stay, this cradle, what bliss!
Now Beautiful anemone, I ask of thee:
Blossom thy lovely petals,
Oh Love itself has wept for thou,
I ask for some new wings of feathers,
To fly me to where I can be found.
Away and away! The hot sun searing,
I fall yet again, what dismay!
Drowning in depths of misplaced dreaming.
About the Creator
Nightingale
In writing, each letter becomes a symbol, each word a note, and each story the lyrics of a song to be sung to the rose.
More of my work under the pen name Nocturnea at:
www.triaprima.co
—— Nightingale
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