Orange Rose Of The Lost Garden

Orange Rose Of The Lost Garden
© Surazeus
2018 08 28

The orange rose of every unfolding heart,
intense with glow of the halcyon sunset,
attracted to the lodestar of affluence,
expands my flourishing cognizance broad
enough to observe this visible gloom
broadcasting datum of correct conclusion
that we must seize each opportunity
to decipher code of the flowing stream.

The quick child kneels on the lush river shore
and dips their fingers in the flashing stream
to capture glow of the sun in its current
but catches instead the swift wriggling fish.

The broad oak leaf that flutters in soft breeze,
shaped like the hand of the child, seems to speak
mysterious spell of sunlight on swift water,
although we vanish in darkness of night
and wake reborn with flashing of the sun,
yet words of sorrow swirl with aching hope.

Death gapes as void between our mortal souls,
though we reach across to be the abyss.

They may search for the seed of the last tree
that fell from the pale hand of the blind seer,
since he knocks on the door where she may live
though her eyes conceal secret of her heart,
but none will ever find the sacred garden
where roses and oranges glow in dawn light.

The rose catches tears of the lonely child
who sings in harmony with the sad stream.

The orange rose of the lost garden, with petals
blushing scarlet tint on delicate lips,
enormous as the void of twinkling stars,
grows curling from the anguish of my heart,
so I cover my face with mask of gold
when I step on stage to play the Sky God.