Oeuvre: Contour

 

Specked with a minute fleck of bane,
A caressing dialect, enjoyable as glacé fruit.
In disbelief, a cultist's propriety.
Pigment, that of a white suit.
Hills veiled in ice pale in every comparison.

 

Adorning malice upon the garb, -
Stain on an unblemished forethought.
Others consider it sordid,
Disregard them: for it is not.

 

With as many characteristics of a xylophone,
It certainly sounds like one, too.
Incisive, though soft.
Upbringing imagination, arousing a conscience to be filled with
Ceremonious gardens laced in jade, and koi ponds
Brimming with crackers for the tiny ones
As the chimes dance.

 

The shadows of the sakura sway, along with the temperance of the wind -
And petals flow down like a stream in the sky
To implant with hope a once troubled, yet now eased mind.

 

The shape and frame of a piece of art:
An ode to possibility.