Your soul bleeds a stagnant white,
tainted by freshly nursed sorrow.
Cream-tinted petals fold
beneath the crumbling bones of a giant,
leaving behind the breath of stars
to scatter like ashes in the wind.
The butterfly floats on a distant horizon
and sighs softly with each passing cloud
that flutters through the viridian sky,
basking in the light of a pallid sun.
A lone sparrow perches at the cusp of dawn
with songs lamenting every still-born dream
that withers on the wishing tree
like snow-leaves wilted in winter's womb.
My heart speaks to me in chrysanthemum whispers
that lurk within the dark-veiled night,
blossoming like moonlight stains
in the furthest corners of my mind.
A raw lily takes root in the birthing grounds
of heaven and suckles like a new-born babe,
eagerly lapping at golden pools of ambrosia
that shimmer with the light of evanescent wings.
And you sleep in unbroken silence
as I pick sorrow-hued roses to lay across
your unmarked grave, patiently awaiting the day
when you will bloom for me once again.
Question: Should this poem be in Life, Love, or Nature? I am undecided.
Reviews and concrit much appreciated.