Children Of Flowers
© Surazeus
2016 12 23

December is the sweetest month when flakes
of snow from heaven, angel dust from stars,
freeze throbbing hearts of love to broken ice,
which forms vast mirror of enchanting eyes
to arch around the world in flashing skies,
but cracks in shards reflecting every face
scatter one soul into lost nameless souls
when children of flowers weep in rain of fire.

All seeds of trees and flowers hidden in mud,
frozen hard as stone under marching boots
of howling wind which sucks from fragile flesh
our soul flames that were born in distant sun,
lie dormant in the brittle mirror face
who watches mute as we shiver in cave
of gloom that swallows words in silent fear
when children of flowers stare at empty sky.

From black clouds that devoured the last warm sun
white-feathered owl of light descends on wings
that shroud the world in freezing gusts of wind,
and golden eyes that glow with dawning light
stare deep into the cold numb core of death
that yawns down bottomless beneath our hearts,
so I chant names of everyone I love
when children of flowers reach for frozen stars.

Tall white owl brings hot glowing eye of light
from naked vast of infinite despair
and places frozen apple in my hand
so I bite deep and taste wild river waves
that gush again through my numb arms and legs
till searing flame of hope from silver lake
erupts at beating of my heart to live
when children of flowers eat last fruit of love.

I wake at flash of sunlight through black clouds
and rise from heaps of rotten flesh on skulls
to crawl toward fluttering wing of anguished hope,
and so emerge from cave of mute despair
to stand on broken rock of singing words
and watch hard crystal ice melt into tears
that trickle sparkling in gold glare of light
when children of flowers rise again from death.

Alone I kneel by gushing river flood
that scatters broken ice, which melts to flames
of glittering light when fear flows from my heart
to fill the valley, where apple trees sprout,
and white petals sprout from twisted black trees
who whisper my name on refreshing breeze,
so I shout loud to vast indifferent sky
when children of flowers sleep in cave of death.

I call their names to come from cave of death
but no one appears, so I touch their cheeks,
yet see no flash of life in silver eyes
that stare blank at nothing inside my heart,
so I weep in spring rain that flashes light
of evening sun to soak my heart with tears
while standing on the river shore alone
when children of flowers dissolve into mud.

April is the cruelest month when drops
of rain from heaven, angel tears from stars,
melt throbbing hearts of love to flowing stream,
which circulates through body of my world
to fertilize the valleys full with trees,
and clear I see in every drop of rain
lost nameless souls merging into one soul
when children of flowers laugh in cleansing rain.