Poetry
Her Mystery
Beneath her dwindling thatch of hallucinogenic heathers worn,
Mystery lies alonetrails of dewdrops upon her pale cheeks
The shimmer of her wet lashes be brighter than the shine of a crystalline
For herein, in the place where Mystery was born,
Pain has been roused within her heart and made brittle dolls of her bones
And sweet Mystery does lie still in her bed of nails;
Made up in honeyed hues of russet brown,
And her lips can't stop their dulcet melody of times lost and frozen minds
For she finally understands in agony's crippling throes,
That sometimes awaiting paradise does happen to be harder than it sounds.
Elation graces her heart when flies her feet through ashen grounds;
Wherein the hunchbacked trees let her ponder her life's whereabouts,
Within the recesses of their chain-like boughs without any a frown,
Which they'd fling her way; her loving strangers, inside her cold house.
Lies have been roused within her heart and made a diary of her mind,
And therein Mystery hides all day and all night long;
While those around muse about her wayward ways hitherto.
And what does sweet Mystery do?
Mystery stays mute, for she did choose for herself the path everyone scorned
And these are the times, when awaiting paradise turns her lights into shadows.
Each new morn makes of her a young flightless bird born and lost
And at last Mystery curses her life and her broken soul.
For still-born dreams had once roused within her heart;
Dreams which made a mockery of her!
And what now shapes the paradise of sweet Mystery lost,
Neither they, nor does the Lost Mystery herself know.
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