Seed of Illusion
Am I supposed to lament in the shadows of doubt, which loom in the obscured light of the twilight of your love?
From twilight must there come night and from night must the day proceed?
Or has the seed of passion, which I so diligently sowed, in the garden of your heart rotted in the too moist earth?
Does the constant tempest of my insanity not kill the will of the seed to blossom into the fruitful buds of everlasting love?
Can I not change to be more like the daffodil, which wildly flourishes from the frost of excruciating winter?
Majestic sun rays will shine in the spring of my passion, but destructive winds will blow from the troubled monsoon of my mind.
And all I can do is pick the dead leaves from the base of our tree.
It no longer bears any fruit or blossoms;
I have devoured its life-force.
Does my constant tending of the unnaturally green leaves cause you to germinate the seeds of another garden?
Or has the pollen of the poppies in the neighboring field blown into the stigma of my flower?