deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Open Mandala

        
It was hinged in manifold of rue and scarlet fate, pooling the young maiden’s hand. Ghastly hewed, I scarcely dimmed where the sound and soul had so wantonly paced; so strangely familiar to these bruises 'pon my port Village.

One must take heed, as madness too dwells in these tired
countries.

Balance holds briefly,‘tween a flint and dry spark of wool and all the idle hours, all our daily countering, swayed under crow fed language, will nigh cease this eternal stalking. Shadows define the candle-wall days effortless, once we barter our ends toward our end;
Clarity bounds these streams deep as the river’s grave, pray it forms from colors, pray it forms from fangs affinity.  The bloodline auguring a quiet evening to come; An evening where land forgives us our mental status, where all in greed is here forth forgotten and redeemed. This and all awaits our voice in answer, we must begin to know this challenge before us; as it creaks unhinged within the fate of our young maiden’s hand.
Written by Perdition
Published | Edited 5th Nov 2015
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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