Free My Soul

Thou throws urns with haste, burns clovers in spring
When bees drop dead as misfortune slaps ye;
No thought with act nor concern for thou brings
The sense of youth—summer’s sour tongue spree.
Watch walls crumble in a bigger house, bare
Of self like a lost ghost with amnesia;
Time can’t manage the tornado in air,
Twisting home without care has no Libra.
Roses’ thorns crawl like vines bent on harming
Naive souls trapped under ghastly sacred
Grounds that dirtied into darkness, arming
Petals with knives, crimson on all acreds.
My mind explodes, sending doves to lightness,
Turning the page to the next day’s brightness.