Your head lay sweetly on my lap
hair turned red, another dream
of my complete collapse.
In bright colors I did linger,
while on white stripes I made a map-
your song: still known with artful fingers.
Eyes open in the dark’s recant
still held by Eleutherios’ minion.
In his grip I remain verdant,
Can something be so true?
or am I sadly pinioned
to a thing that’s base and rude?
The fruit for which I was made
was kicked far out of view.
And an empty void should go away
azure and bright, if blue.
Yet the Serpent’s bite which makes it stay
ever muddles up the hue.