Morning Glory, 4/2/2012, Michael N. Johns
The Star of the Morning is a pentagram, rolled up in a tight, deadly ball,
I pour a cup of bitter dark; enough mornings will kill us all,
She blossoms and screams of voodoo, dreams, and demands I do her will,
As if vowed “I Do” were somehow less true than the day she cast her spell,
But I still call it true love.
The morning glory wears a purple robe, displaying her curves, magical,
With toxic seeds that grow like weeds, pretty mirrors, hung off the wall,
When I first saw the blooms it was my doom, if beautiful things could kill
The vines were cut and the doors were shut; should blessings feel like hell?
The blessings are still true love
Kikyouzaki Murasaki grows, her edges sharper than knives,
But beauty, fragrance, put us in her trance, no release, for the rest of our lives.
True love and life last until they have passed, like a bullet train downhill,
Soon the light will trim, and the glory dim, faster than anyone can tell.
Spring dawns blossom to true love.