A beating heart rests on my palm,
its beats reverberating across my arm that holds roses.
I can feel its cold flame surging,
its thirst rivaling Medea,
as it fills to the brim with crimson.
I lay my eyes and see her beside me,
through the storms of hail and stone,
across the fields of dew,
and by the orchard.
While on the arm that caresses marigolds,
a crying heart clings to my fingers.
It’s colder than wind and soul, yet it is tender,
gentle like Hestia, with its flicker small but warm.
I lay my eyes and see her across from me,
sights barely appeared,
other than her voice and gaze, under the young tree.
The sun was gently rising before I returned to reality.