found, all of my life, was far too brittle.
I cannot waste it, any more.
I cannot taste it as before.
Once upon a time,
there was a maiden,
she cried, such bitter tears,
by love forsaken.
She was tormented by what her life was for.
She found a place of such invented seasons,
lost amid the search for other reasons.
She found it's rituals and its lore.
Whispers from the secrets of the sacred,
now crushed within the search for profane hatreds.
It is gelded by its own design,
left for other regions, and a clime,
of other minds.
But whisper is an echo in a theatre so large
no field is fallow forever.
Cast it quiet, the seeds,
and scatter them,
see what nature, has in store.