Garden of the Vestal Virgins

Six Vestal Virgins,
Dressed in diaphanous white,
Skin like that of porcelains,
From their lips each, comes a whisper of insight,
A delicate breath of purity,
From an untainted garden
An echo of piety,
From the closed flowers of heaven,
That seek no pollen,
Amongst the untrimmed landscape,
Lest they be common and forgotten,
Over their shoulders, their long hair does drape.
Priestess One, with tresses of coily, golden blonde,
Sustained by the logical mind's turning gears,
Priestess Two, with straight tresses of crimson, piquant,
Nourished by heart, and good and bad tears,
Priestess Three, with ginger ringlets, uncommon,
Invigorated by the creativity of personality,
Priestess Four, with tresses of wavy brown, golden,
Fueled by the senses and body physicality,
Priestess Five, with wispy light curls of raven black,
Propelled by a magick and mystery, within all humans,
Priestess Six with soft, thick, silver-white curls down her back,
Driven by a deep, innate, and wise, spiritual sense.
They seek not to be different,
Yet they know they are,
Of things carnal, they are not ignorant, but rather silent,
They long not, for they do not care,
In fact, they usually disdain that which humans crave,
Back, they tie their hair, and under the headdress it goes,
Guardians of the hidden, winding path, brave,
A place within the garden bushes, no one knows.
At the beginning, a sign inscribed in an ancient tongue only they speak,
"This path, and this garden are protected by Vesta and Gefjun,
And imbued with a pure, magick,
Upon this untainted land, shall come no misfortune,
And should thee die a virgin, thou shalt become an attendant
Of Gefjun, helping to guide and protect the pure,
From a tainting of darkness, reluctant,
Only gentle, loving, seldom, and wanted (if that), will it be, I will ensure."
This garden is full of secrets of an ancient virtuoso,
But hostile to anyone wanting to explore.
I am the land upon which this garden does grow,
The priestesses are the aspects and protectors of me, they're pure,
I seek a higher love, of soul, heart, and mind,
As Gefjun and Vesta watch over me,
From their realm of ethereal, gossamer, light, that does blind,
From whence I got my purity,
My body so seldom wants,
And so weakly, I can easily ignore,
I am not forcing myself away from something my body wants,
Nor am I immature,
I am merely seeking a lasting love,
Not an uncomfortably physical partnership,
That's bound to die, when the physicality dies, from lack of love,
And no personality matches in the relationship.

I am the garden of the Vestal Virgins,
With pursuits of the mind and soul,
I don't fit neatly within the margins,
But it doesn't mean I'm not whole,
Just because I don't really have a use for that part of me,
Doesn't mean I'm lesser, or useless,
I have my place in society,
And my vessel of holiness.

I am the caretaker of this garden,
Letting the hedges and the bushes, grow wild,
Let them stay natural, and serve their function,
As I stay to myself, and stay mild.

I am the Vestal Virgins of the garden,
And the Vestal Virgins are me,
No need apologizing for who I am, nothing to pardon,
It is me, that I am so proud to be.