For clovers.
one lone leaf,
under the oaks and grape vines.
Forgotten, in a world of unfulfilled reveries.
Since a seed,
trampled by unforgiving seekers of happiness,
knows the day of winter's arrival.
Everything just a vivid illusion.
A lone lead finds its belonging,
in the bloodstained sly of fall.
Asking for the light,
to remember by the night.
The sun died, as it always does.
Giving last of the life to the heavens,
fulfilling the dream.
Drifting without ever noticing,
the night devouring the light.
The brilliance of the moment,
sought out the darkness of the perpetual truth.
Happiness to me is just another castle in the sky.
Angelus.
Two leaves entwined together,
nurturing a world of its own.
No end, no beginning,
just, now.
Hope means nothing,
no past, no future,
just, now.
Maybe light had shone upon the viridian wings,
maybe light will shine upon the viridian wings,
but now, just shadows.
A dew drop, seeps into the dark world.
Puzzled, the wings stretched,
letting the strange jewel out.
The crystal shone a light of never before,
into a tomorrow where for eternity,
the light shines upon the emerald wings.
One leaf knew of the hidden,
drifted to autumn,
to keep its love in the summer.
One leaf stranded in time
leaving voids in souls the colour of winter
and enthralling crimson in its own.
The lines of blood broken,
beginning the ending. The sky is once again perfect,
separating the bleak world and one leaf's pain,
from the loneliness and oblivion of the another.
But, both found a place, eternal or not.
Buried in a slumber without knowing,
alone in a work, where disappointment is not known.
Awakened by another clover's prayer,
find happiness.
With the power to expel and call forth winter,
and have happiness,
all it wishes,
is to a place not reachable alone.
The scent of a memory not its own,
drove it clambering for the last of a vanishing green spirit's past.
Life hangs on, for the dream alone.
An untainted jade
reflecting the dark and blankness of its other half.
Searching in the suffocating bitterness,
for the existence of another clover.
Walking on a path of clover,
under an evergreen sly,
two reached the yearning of the no more.
Its isolation warmed by the fire of long- ago,
whispers an ancient prayer,
I want happiness.
The brilliance of the moment,
sought out the perpetual truth. The end of the journey is not happiness,
but when it seems
the closest.
The worth of happiness?
Four clovers' dreams,
if not, lives.