Marigold of Morning
Marigold of morning: the love of a beautiful death;
Marigold of morning, the hungry nighttime awaits your bloom.
In the merciless rains of springtime, evening cools the meadows gracefully like an undying love in the belfries of my heart. The stars watch silently as if they could fall from their celestial perch and dance along the avenues, free from the troubles of a crawling evening.
Marigold: I love you. Love is the beautiful demise that tumbles from the sun to the seat of the blessed, climbing the torrents of a youthful heart as a gracious terror. Who can halt the sunset? Who would chain the rain clouds to the pillars of men forsaking the modest wonder of a bountiful sky?
The numb of tribulation carries me along the winds; through the hungry gusts of a crimson nighttime like a grocery bag fallen hopelessly ill of the amourous desires cast by the listless clouds.
Marigold, how could you?
How could you love that which is unchained?
How could you breathe our love to another soul, a love that now travels along the vanishing gutters to the daybreak, wandering the lonesome alleyways until noon turns night?
Marigold: the beautiful death.
She is not a flower of indefinite beauty, but from the garden she is the one I picked. Let the whispering ruins of spring wash the city dry;
let the haunted loves of the timid scream a triumphant howl over the whimpering crowds of Broadway;
let the morning come with cleanliness and grace, with bright humors of a timeless victory;
all that can be asked lives in the drying petals of my love. All that is just is the beautiful anguish of death. It lives in the homesick gusts of a lonely fall.
All that is treasured will crash to the seas like a weighted moon on the tenements of a lovesick city.
Marigold of morning; the love of all will perish.