Wisteria

'Neath the wisteria,

in cold moon's bloom.

Of blood and breath,

in roots entombed.

I reach in silence,

though not with hand,

but a poisoned whisper,

through loam and sand.

Though solemn visage in the ground, 

a glow of fuschia,

wrought abound.

And if 'tis to be my resting place,

'neath the strong wisteria.

There is no better spot to wait,

than in the glow of this plumeria.

In angel's breath, the scent of earth,

a morning dew, dawns my rebirth.

And though no vessel at my return,

wisteria leaves still blow and churn, 

and as the colors now paint night's sky,

the cold moon stares...

and so do I.

The wind then comes, pulls me away,

wisteria blossoms, as does the day.