This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is wealth.
L is for Longing
In my arms
when stars were white,
An old man studied magic in a flower.
A day we had
in sweet affluence of bells and song,
I held color in the sky.
Alive in my garden
strung by rare roots,
The world we painted in human flesh.
The dreams were green
At sunrise, the trees were covered in hoarfrost.
A crack in the lines where another world begins.
This one ends.
Through the hole
where sap and spirit are withheld,
The old man stops.
The summer is short
the end is pale and spoiled,
The old man starves.
Behind the iron gate
mounds of blood pour out,
The old man crawls.
In my hand
where the flower stands,
Silver bells are still ringing.
"To die for beauty, than live for bread." -Emerson
*photo-Lane of Poplars at Sunset, Van Gogh.