Garden of Breeding

PurpleBee

Another trance, I'll sew your pants to show the slow, romance, though scant, when stitched with love deserves a chance. A patchwork quilt, home of guilt, swaddling clothes, Jesus warns us not to wilt, pill trips ignore it, eclipse importance, wasted Mormons watch us worship abnormal foremen.

So show me the way, I'm blind, undermined by the truth that I know, but can't seem to find, its lost in the hay and needles my thoughts, that are stacked in a corner, darkened to nought.

Streets shine wet and the clouds squeezed dry, the rain has passed, it never lasts, but asks the grass to fast en masse; no choice, no voice, it has no noise; save for the sound of wind through the blades, rejoice in news of rain shadow's shade.

We all wait for things from the sky, it casts no shadow but colours us in, compels us, repels us and swells us with sin. Things don't grow from the ground but way up high, every birth is a birth borne of the sky.

My mind casts heaven as a kingdom of roots, no angels of white, but wild woven shoots, entangled in battles and meshed to a gauze that carpets the floor of all that is caused. A celestial farm tended by none, it grows at will, weed and flower, until distilled, the clouds refilled, full to fall as fresh power showers.

Earth floats, a great sphered mirror of growth and birth that's rooted near. We wonder where is heaven's Eden, this is it, God hates weeding.