BLUE ROSE FROM THOUSAND TREES

The white space looming around,

The heavens and the after-tree;

Not a thing, not even sorrow,

Could penetrate my formless being.

The umpteen years of waiting room,

Though no hourglass to tell thee;

How long, how torn it would,

Take him to come to me.

A white orb just floats along,

A lone spectator to the tears of free;

Spirits that are caged in,

The humans of the deathly spree.

When the darkness is just about to be,

The swallowing giant of my restless being;

The knock finally sounds itself,

In my ears which just cease to be.

When those pair of eyes search about,

My pair of eyes which cease to be;

Our souls are the only ones,

Who find the others' lonely beats.

Our travelling auras which come around,

Together for a...nother trip;

No packing bags, just memories,

Just the blue rose from a thousand trees.