The Taste
Drunk with the scent of absence as the sword spun behind.
Once, upon a garden green With banks of blossoms wild, There grew a home— Bathed in sunshine smiles.
Bees—the bees... Dancing harvesters, Amid the cornucopia Of color and of cheer.
Petals whispered secrets, While thorns wore sweet perfume— A soul of no ill repute, Gloved in silent bloom.
It was Paradise—until A Sower of the seed, And Servant of the soil, Amid the lavender and loam—
Plucked the fruit. And tasted, whole, The glowing, sweet, forbidden Hollow of a soul.
Hedge rows of delight, Once tender, neat, and small, Grew sudden, wild, unbound— With bursting bloom and brawl.
And so—cast out. Gate swung soft behind Draped in wisteria vine, While exile wore the scent.
Now days are only memory— Gilded in gold, as Cortés Might behold and marvel, Smote with sacred awe.
But he will never find it— That garden hidden deep, Locked in the chambers Of love.
Known and suffered. Never touched. Never smelled. Never held—
Again.