a thrust through the thick bush
a garden replete with a lucious covering
a pierce and swing, unlocking the door
gateway of vine, gently, loudly, quietly yielding
stepping in green tinged light
carefully treading the lilies
lilies not for graves but offerings
wild sylvester sprinkled in the gaps
heaving, bleeding, the pause is untrusted
the chase has been ruthless
rustling leaves and cracking branches
trembling respite breaks again
new sweat drips down the brow
conscious stillness and tempered focus
the sounds flow in an outward march
the secret dome mutes the sigh
clear water mirrors a blinding sun
a safer rest sinks in with each drink
the sweat rolls down the chin and falls
a thundering echo booms through the wood
the heart flits in exasperation
the gaping hole, a fount of blood
air is for naught, light is for naught
every drop of life feeds the lilies
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