Ambrosiac

If only you knew what held it,

What kept it in its place -

If only you knew what made it,

Would it yet taste the same?

Longevity in revolution,

Furtive hope becoming frame -

To strip its brilliant color

And wonder what will remain.

If what did could stay corruption,

Preventing orbit from keeping count,

Would it be freely able to float

By variance, or amount?

Riven words slip through

Foaming minds with sharpened teeth;

Oh, how the ripe and delicate

Could feel so nurtured,

And incomplete.

Oh, how could blue ever be so dull;

How could filth ever be so sweet.