Savor the taste of medicine only to be drunk by the few.
Incented by the scent of a peace that few will know, and fewer hold.
Bittersweet blossoms fold to the earth in showery haze,
He cries of days long gone. Relishing the birth of memory's daze.
Praying for the pill to find the end of his endless sound.
Astounded, he lays:
Two way mirror perception, but with no reflection.
Expectations drive the nail deeper into false perfection's mentions of a better way.
Deeper, so the bittersweet blossoms may bloom,
And pretend to be the medicine to be drunk by the few.
The few we hold will hold the peace we don't
