Roses, Siddhis, Hues.
She dreams, questions the sacred.
Flying.
Paper held,
turned through
growing
revealed roses.
It (he) seems so central.
It (he) says so much.
It (he) does not tell all.
Deep in my well
I know you would
be just held.
Just held.
Risen, appropriate to
the new blooming.
Ever, if that was
its state.
Frequenter, to lonely places.
