Strewn lilacs at the cutting board,
Divided by the subtle awakening of winter,
Great storms to conspire against
The love that ropes the season’s pledge
Upon the testament where life is meant
To arrange itself in pleasure’s edge.
A knife to draw the perfect face
From the flawed eyes that never leave
Great perception on beauty’s weave
Of intricacy in its ignited empire.
Storms that shed more than leaves
Through rows of dust, marking descent
A castrated trail of where flowers discard
Lust’s lost fruit that was never meant.
A knife for the carving of delicate marks
Perfected by the serpentine flow
Among all that shapes itself in hearts
Swallowed by loose tongues that know.
A weighing game of her sweet cheeks
To a descent of what was never meek.
Handsome features carved by gods
In the manner for which we place
Division to its keeping grace.