The Hearth of Spell

Eyes gleam the sunrise traces,
silky allure's appeal of facade,
presumptive strokes of surrogate whimsy
snared in a fleeting vicarious fixation,
not imbued with vision
to inhale the pure core of beauty's bouquet.

Only seeing grace's natural mask
never pondering the richness flowing beneath
where its juices are both night and day.

Transitory suckle serving sensory snacks
unable to feed the soul,
restrained in obsession
from inhaling the scent radiant in the pulse.

In the heart of purest spirit
glows its fireplace desires
so easy to miss in the cursory awe
what truly can enchant
because it is the blossom born of calling
seeded by nature's hands
being the sonnet of veiled magic
left unread
when only caressing petals
and not the life within.