passion survived,

dante’s dream.

was no buddhafly,

with wounded wings.

the sky was full,

with fire bright.

the stones quiet,

with secret tales.

there is purpose,

the minnows run.

the trail follows,

lines of the face.

it’s not hard,

to see the blooms,

or buddhafly float.

nothing is funny,

‘cept this paradise.

there are no twins,

that look the same.

hidden treasures peak,

from gravel and sand.

war zone to the left,

buddhafly to the right.

on nervous lips ahead.

fantasy awakens.

beholding the sight,

the taste and touch,

of the buddha full,



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