Beauty's Crimson Gold Poem by Herman Hoyte

Whilst walking through the flowered bed,
swimming over the garden's head,
perchance my eye, glimpsed crimson gold,
among the pedals, in the coral's fold.

The fins glittered, scales they sparkled,
leaves more real, than glossy marble,
not just a face frozen in stone,
in this rock, true life was shone.

There it stood, erect, but small,
swaying in the current's call.
Overshadowed, overlooked,
so deserved a fisher's hook.

For sure, it spoke,
a song, you'd hope,
of clouds on waves,
or wet sun rays.
Showing all, its purity,
resurrecting history,
mendacity gone,
old truth, embalmed.

Though passers see, this unfeigned light,
the notion in me, is outside their sight.

But not this song,
embroidery of harp,
instead lowly sounds,
an ensuing carp.
Round, circling slow,
casting shadow,
dropping snow.

Weeping rips.
Welled up whips.
And hardest to take,
not that mere snake,
but the Rhythm surrounding,
encompassing, resounding.
As it pushes, pulls,
eroding the shoals.

To this beat, the crimson wails,
lamenting earth fills the sails.
The gold is hidden, 'tis not out,
out of range, cannot shout.

The fins retracted, the scales they're masked,
the leaves disguised, love's buried flask,
not just a wall, flat and cold,
a hidden masterpiece, curled and rolled.

There it stood, erect but small,
swaying in the currents call,
overshadowed, buried deep,
not dead, in nightmare sleep.

For sure, it cried,
burning tears,
no death for slaves,
not blunt these blades,
reflecting the surrounding misery,
murdering the ancestry,
for facts are gone,
and lies are found.

Though passers see, they walk on by,
my aching despair, an unheard sigh.

But not this song,
knit diamond notes,
instead dark echos,
an iron float.
Pinning down,
blackening the crown,
a silent sound.

Weeping rips,
welled up whips,
and hardest to take,
the gold believes the fake,
crying out too late, its sold,
the scene I see is overlooked,
the situation, skipped,
I'll race down, part the clouds.

Observe? Stay silent? watch it fall apart?
will that I do? I think not.
I'll part the sea, crying seed.
“listen, listen! ”, I will plead.