A bushel full of roses stretching
round the cloister's arc;
silent red-stitched poses glowing
beaming fetching hark.

Clutched within, within my hands,
the pain as pleasant points;
barbed and wired, slanted, tired,
bursting through my joints.

Blood falls steady, a silent pool
of life and death's rebirth.
Sticking in my finger's ring and
soaking up the thirst.

A lively skyline friends in hand
work through the day's events;
hip and hearty, checked out smarty
scarves and socks and pants.

Looks as though a place to go
although I don't know where.
But I asked her "towards my home?"
and he said "everywhere."

This cultivated cultured life
has many different facets;
each contains their lush domain
as artists spread and catch it.

And frame it, qualify the time
and complicate its strife.
With Chester Himes and Hammet's
rhymes to simply its life.

A dialogue reverberates finds
features firmly fastened.
In a note that's left beside
graffiti poignant, placid.

Abrupt the shifts, the lines,
the rifts bursting forth with song.
To know yourself in time with pics
the season's strum along.