Metamorphosis
Sorrow transmutes into a flower: blossoms with urgent passion of bleeding hours...Time yields only a thin purple veil of shuddering resistance to change, half welcoming change only from the fear of lingering hurt: Clouds graying as if proclaiming that their power over the sun must prevail. Petals sob insistently while kissing touchingly the moist fog. The garden silently fights against the forboding anticipation to no avail the winter storm soon to sweep through all the green effort of the year.
The half-asleep insects refuse to sing. The dark soil dozes as the first snowflakes fall. The altar of Gaia, Earth's mother goddess is wanting the sacrificial slumber of her children to ease her suffering of wanting and waiting.
And so the season mourns of the dying blossoms amidst the sky of dazzling whiteness: a red flower, the last flower...The curtain falls for the last season's opera of tragedies as the church bells toll for the bereft relations' last prayers. The prefered prayers gasp upon the conversion of the season...Upon the new grave, the last flower's dream fades into forever...It lies in the net of time as if its beauty can gain eternity with the loyalty of guilt.
...The rebelling youths care not for wisdom in tomorrow: hot blood and innocence fuel the flashing lightning that laughs with victory against sleeping fears of the believers of sacrifying today for the benefit of the future!
