Poetry - Prince And His Frevor

The Misguided Wisteria

The Misguided Wisteria

A stream of color in the smallest bed of comfort, is enough to make you blunder of things that haven't even happened yet, if you decided you would look before you try it, then believe it I'll make it plighted, as till my knuckles grew salvias and zinnia, and chirping hummingbirds and other words lead to crimson reds. 

A poppy planted in the heaths of the fallen, before me, a place fate could have headed, like a Rosetta Stone to our leadings, to an understanding of the future once held in the palm of my hand, and what could've been, but if it hadn't what could we have transcribed if we already known it like we did now.

I feel that the only people allowed to fantasize and dream of picture-perfect dance in the candlelight aflight, Are ever closely possible to that reality With Their strongest ties, masks and in their prime, Yet can wholeheartedly lead to the depths of fear and loss of time, yet in one look can burn though and undermine.

Maybe I'd do it for myself, but maybe I'll do it all for everyone's will, you chained my ankles to your deadly death man's bells, clears the passage to my heart and the same petrification and heaven you riddle all my supplications this juxtaposition, a superstition you gave no reasons,  A rose tinted aquarium, between two oppositions.

My misguided wisteria found when nobody needs you here now, holding all it's grounds, you're beautiful in a way that's downing it out, I plant my heart in deepest depths that now you have to pull me out, As did the ways I cannot believe has transfixed between apathy, big eyes and aligned astronomy, as arsons did to my party.