When love died.
It didn’t resurrect.
At first, I thought it was a beauty.
But when money came.
The intuition in my heart deceived me.
Beauty dancing with mundane clothing.
My mind was triggered by the shot.
The flower that was died.
I saw, coming back to earth.
Is this a dream or reality?
Let’s say; It is the Naturalistic world,
where the Painter paints on delusion.
My heart bleeds, bleeding out her emotions.
The rhythms of time, wait nay.
A watchdog for the people.
No…! Not for the people, but for the flower of beauty.
The beauty that I didn’t birth.
But birthed from the stance of vessels.
The vessels of the supported being.

When I look at the world,
I see emptiness.
Boredom has blessed me.
But I have resorted for another,
that the truth of time may be told.
You may cease thy substance or beauty.
Or as you may call it.
But my success shall abide within me.
For the life of life, dwell in us.
It can be so complicated at times.
But I have clouded my thoughts with oceanography.
My beauty is with no other than you.
I am faithful to the core.
That thy blessings would analyze nature,
the interpretations of the hearts of dynamics.
For the resistant vector is come,
that they may cry out with joy unending.