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Many flowers have bloomed in
the fields;
remote hearts are consumed.
As lovers, like a dove sounds
in whispers of silk confound.
The sun sets past my room
as tears roll like pebbles
pushed by the waters.
While wondering of her reverie
drifting and towards her mystery.
The night is where the shadows sleep,
as two souls traverse in fantasy.
While moved to warm each other;
the last flower left some seeds for another.
Even if the petals are blue,
they do age only in moments.
I can see inside her deepest core;
perhaps these dreams can be shared.
A seed is never alone until the wind comes.
Love is never incapable of being recovered,
sometimes its merely just misplaced;
in the fields of summer replaced.
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