Night Of The Radishes A Tradition Poem by Lovita Morang

Night of the radishes a tradition
That I grew my cicatrix on the rocky Mountain,
Healed wounds cascades down, like mountain rain;
I have reached the shores of silenced valley,
I yet don't know how not to care, when I see you in melee;

Broken pieces of mirrors have tarnished the enormity of my worshipped images,
Memories are now the monumental masterstroke of forgotten gazes;
I peeped out, tip-toed, to the hungry sterling waiting for a worm, dead and creeping,
Warm winter solistice basked in the songs of the stealthy sterling.

A moment like a night of radishes just a celebrated born,
Left all that unanamoured clasp of deathness, unadorn;
Quartet of quaking infinity's deep,
Out of all omniscience ocean, it's my delight that my beloved weeps;
In eternal paths of boundless glory's grace embrace;
Lo! Now my beloved man macerates the entirety of me, like a conquered calmant on the cicatrix of sculpted solace.

-Lovita J R Morang

#KaafiyaMilaao
#SaraTeasdale