In a country-native; wanton to her thighs.
An eastern promise; no-doubt vilifies.
The embodying of reed like weeping eyes…
The cradling of their ageless, goodbyes.
O’ and hidden beneath her beloved citadels…
They’re the red and golden lotus flowers
When infants; marshal to and from their bowers.
But all who come by this way… are infidels
Tormentors still are they; who are not yet born.
They Phoenix the evergreen thorn…
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Comments
Highhat | July 25, 2011 - 03:58
A very inspiring poem Mark- thanks for posting it-
;)Pia