The Sanctuary Poem by Deb Panda

A way that most of the thought
Attribute the wind to plant-
While all are fairly ripened,
To gather, the mighty of mind.
Ever the fervent thought lean deeply;
To ruin a sawing of beauty,
While they are breaking of pulses,
Like fountain in a straining hillside.
Will stir within a twilight bed-
Sealed another in her arms and hold,
Often coupled trees of granaries,
Should be like moist, and fastening.
Brightest stream from broken bones,
Spangling a large thread like rings,
Springing; that would yield spark to ecstasy-
Of nature that bestowed upon us.
Be the one to prize of pain for the dear,
As those arms can't cover a thought,
With speechless words to dress fair,
Not really fired,
Tasted a poor and no attire.