In the trackless desert of my Soul,
there blooms a golden blood red rose
in a hidden garden.

A garden where play terrible red
and green lions under a golden sun
being chased by a silvery moon.

Where eagles fly and wheel in an azure sky,
chained to crawling toads, and
serpents slowly wind around the trees.

In a small rocky grotto, the winged dragon
unceasingly chases it tail as if
in a boiling, roiling cauldron.

Ravens sit watching in the flowering
trees as a wolf and dog cavort and
fight in a flourishing field.

For all the fantastical beasts, it’s the
rose blooming in the shelter of
the heart of the garden that matters.

A rose ever unfolding, forever blooming
sweetly smelling secluded and nurtured
on the elixir in my heart.

by Samuel Scarborough