Threading the web out of velvet, yet puny words.
To mind returns the visage, like carved in by swords.
Trying to cut it\'s parts, cast them into fire.
Forget ever increasing, itching desire.
No matter the thoughts, no matter desperate cries.
I return to that garden, despite deepest tries.
Stone paths, now long unkept, bathe in a faint lantern glow.
Azure streams, alien to passage of time, still flow.
Above them bridges, pale, ornate proudly they stand.
Even though, their usefulness has come to an end.
And it, the purple entropy, seeping with grief.
Of one\'s own, internal peace, ever hated thief.
Leafs climb over, around trees, each with eye that blinks.
All crowned by bouquets, of lily-like things.
If there is salvation, it would be loaded gun.
Singing, they won\'t stop bringing up what has been done.
Perhaps we could weave a new garden, reunite.
Either shine with light or both perish, into the night.
Get swallowed by flames, or devoured by disease.
Holding hands on forgotten flower bed, decease.
In this cruel existence, good times never last.
Like your existence, through my hands, cut short so fast.
Every morning is remembrance, of this sin.
It is stabbing of the heart, with humongous pin.
I yet wait, for reunion, you will ease my pain.
And at last, let me rot in your arms once again.