Mythe

byTzara©

From deep in the sacred stream of sleep
I am raised awake
by the song of noisy birds.

I had been happy, dead
to touch and scent
in a field of white flowers,

but the insistent earth
sprouts vines from its damp soil
to entwine my limbs,

wash me in the fragrance
of honeysuckle and jasmine, until
I own no slumbered sense,

but walk and laugh and roll
in the lush greenery of Persephone's rich fields,
unwary of my necessary Fall.


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byTzara© 2 comments/ 1362 views/ 0 favorites

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