Unessential Existence

"Raise your words, not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder" Rumi a concrete heart now resembles feathered textures like a house made from lace words which were once ignored now wound through tormented thorns life is like pages of petals withering in winter and fate a butterfly without a blossom - in an analogy of caterpillar cruelty, predators feast upon cocoons but in an upside world with endless doors and disappearing stairs - there is no where to escape in an orchard of naked trees, a gardener cries without seeds, breathing, but barely existing, like a poetic muse without his ink colourless confetti drifting like moonlight in daylight his soul is a conquered fortress an empty vase with cracks a flame unable to kindle his spirit is an anchored vessel he has composed a song, but he has no orchestra a battered punching bag without a boxer he can recall when rain poured in musical colours when mirrors were pleasant and shadows did not follow time seems to reverse, and all he can see are faces without expression without tender nourishment only cold horizons flourish, so he buries romance into a loveless tomb. Simple Musing