Blooms

Nature’s petal vases
held within the soul
where the bloomed became the bond
in the gray realm between day and night,
the cups of awareness to hold something in the air
swirling, watching,
ever hovering to prey,
which hands try to shield by a simple way.

Perhaps only the wind was the tormenter,
but it didn’t cease the inklings and whims,
those stabs in the night from unearthly touches
always left invisible during the day.

On the ground they lie
as simple grooves and cracks to be ignored,
yet the insides cringe from an icy caress,
instinct bearing them as a presence's pleasure.

Cultivated branches become the sprouts of amulets,
a strange though fascinating lure to believe
there is more to land and foliage
than the simple creations of spring.

Peace hangs in the questions felt
each stirring wonder keep alive
a pondering about the more beyond life,
that sense of what dwells without hands
and can touch at times with some dark power.

Subtle traces of their essence
is so oft discovered in ways
unproven to other eyes,
still inside sure it is so real.

Now lives the guardian who abides by lore
to decide this time to not be vulnerable
with sleep no longer the habitat of those nightmares
thanks to the limb growths
who capture the black vision spirits
by those bottles on that tree.