this all consuming apocalypse
which sought to devour around hour
of early black,
what worth is wisdom
if we cannot learn to let go of things?
This desire of yours
is both lock and key
as petals of crocus
which fold in gold lidded sleep,
I feel no guilt
in admitting to strange addiction.
Photo credits: Lines Meeting, Pierre Dubreuil
Posted on ‘Camera Flash’ @ Real Toads
And on ‘Poetry Pantry’ @ Poets United