Mosaic - On the Helm

Constant deliberations that I have made
about that unique afternoon, and evening
weigh down upon me - as does a shade
that bears down silently - a part of being

a tree
all alone
and still steady,
but outworn
within
a singularly worked-upon garden.

Someone waited for a cemetery to materialise
and wanted, furthur, a brief brush to evolve -
a satisfying trope that this text would realise
as a conquest, less said - and would revolve

about
nothing more odious
than a pair of brown lips.

Then, should I be silent, silenced
by an erratic demand made fancifully?
Or should I be hopeful? Entranced
by only a faint hope, wishing dutifully

for fulfillment
at the hands of a white-livered lily
wresting so painfully
with the tentacles that it itself conjures
within-without-all about -
lenses all awry