Violet rose bushes line the concrete walking path.
At night, the orangish-white southern moonlight floods the gardens of paradise.
With a mere flap of their wings, holomorphic butterflies map eternities’s seashell lined shores where the twilight times never end.
Ahhhh, to smell the sweet sanctity of chaos.
Dreams still come true in the land of my heart’s seemingly infinite ashing.
During the day, we all wear halos made of zen,
And the angels, well, they sing of sonnets, sunshine, and truth.
When a lyricist fashions art with a pen,
Intention inevitably ripples like the words of the wise.
Surprise! All is not as it seems when it comes to these creatures and their ardent epidermises.
The ever so gentle buttetfly wings glisten in time with these rhymes.
We need to stay on the up and up as the prophets of creative tomorrows.
Life needs some orchestrating, dontcha know.
Stay true to your hearts flames and the flair of the debonair?
Why isn’t most everything seen as Heaven sent?
For all misgivings, may saintly creatures repent.
Where there speech is lacking, may absolute and beauteous felicity find its place, for the immaculate, transcendental beauty of the world will never be erased nor will the smitten sunshine saints of the four seasons be silenced.
Here I stand, comfortable and face to face with the divine, devoid of any purpose other than to formalize the sublime.