This tight, winding, rough road "less traveled"
Goes to where only good men dare to roam.
My friends, our Lady Courage, will not retreat,
Back to wing'd Heavens where Angels keep -
Her heart is yet entwined in our briar patch -
Here on this deeply troubled planet, Earth.
Her seedlings have fashioned many caste,
Into kind hearts that seldom tremble or crack.
Love is always rushing here, like everywhere,
Spilling honey o'er morn's precious dewdrops,
It is indisputably woven magnificent, for sure .
Love's flavor lingers on raspy pallets like chocolate,
But, 'tis quite bitter at battle's end if death.
It is this best part of men, that inspires great songs,
Sprinkle pollen down the throats of to all beings -
That thirst for bliss, and reap love's rich harvests.
Bleeding burdens find valor in the wee hours
To heal that shattered part of us, that might die.
In times of drought, let fall, tender fall, raindrops;
Like vital blossoms, naked hearts shall catch teardrops.
Slung and spun are life's spectacles, let live vivid green.
If exiled be our Lady's cohorts: love, honor, & wisdom,
Imprisoned are good people's souls, on All Poet's Day;
Biting are ants, lies men consume, and our lethal manner.
Flying on a sheik stallion, she's sleek in vital ways;
With poetic eyes, she hurls passion, clad in gusto.
Near a stream, on a burning hill, in merging dark,
She has built an arching rainbow-styled drawbridge,
To let loose God's abiding will on fresh poetic days.
A blossom charms, she warms, like a lady ought to;
She won't wither from duties most mortals spurn;
Nor can she imagine, a rose without a lovely stem.
This pithy-edged gift, never sleeps, never weeps,
Nor can she be distracted as the garden seeps.
She's a tear, a speck of light, a constant whisper,
That ushers lost hearts to an unseen, eternal horizon,
She never yields to vanity like unedited poems,
And makes boundless dreams, repeat liked hours,
As blood flows through our hearts, so shall wisdom.
She's no bitch; her appeal falls from Heaven above!
Her blood is rich and fertile in the valley;
Insects and bugs are loud and loose in the bush .
Robust roots slurp while sappy stems are seeping .
Bright have been the briar's pink petals of late .
Where the path is barbed, the willows weep .
Where mortality is pointed, lit is a poet's sky;
Yes! Her sword is fallen unto an insipid shadow!
But, she says her fruit will ripen in the grove .
Clearly, a sodden end felt ever nearer,
Dear hope held firm and clearer,
Impressive, for a while,
Smelled sweetbrier's swaying roses leaves.
The gate oft oiled, opens a way seldom evergreen,
Our shepherd keeps encouraging her flock .
Yes, Death comes to cheat her!
Thus the garden weeps .