Roses, Siddhis, Hues.

 

She dreams, questions the sacred.

 

Flying.

Paper held,

turned through

growing

revealed roses.

 

It (he) seems so central.

It (he) says so much.

It (he) does not tell all.

 

Deep in my well

I know you would

be just held.

 

Just held.

Risen, appropriate to

the new blooming.

Ever, if that was

its state.

 

Frequenter, to lonely places.

5 thoughts on “Roses, Siddhis, Hues.

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