Gods Garden Of Sunshine Poem by Mark Heathcote

Our way-would calling?
Star pulsed, lover.
'Who's hearts a purple emperor?
Teased-out of a milk-white flower'
Churned into curds and whey,
Whose rosy, nothingness
In conclave, owlets flicker.
Does intern, lead us away?

Shouldn't I who am lassoed plunge talons?
Like a dandelions root.
Shouldn't I blow with these waxing-suns?
Shouldn't I beak-split tear—apart
Her gossamer: She; whom hemps a moon.
Shouldn't I be the one—who?
With tapper alights her inert womb.

Simply put: Shouldn't I dive for pearls?
Or pan loves untold-gold: No, I just won't
Or can't be led 'foolhardy' downstream.
'Or be so cold or so dishonestly, headstrong.
No, I shall walk faithfully loyal full-stop.'
Besides you beside, deaths black-dog,
On-leash as if I was just newly born.

Like some kind of cocksure bullfrog
Isn't this and that? The way of it all
Star pulsed, lovers.
The way a poets tongue must rock!
Isn't this and that? Our way-would calling?
God, willing… We won't all be summonsed
Or subpoenaed; for that one last regret.