The Shroud

With green as pale as apples, the leaves curl into the buoyant tree
Profiles of certainty
Invoking a deity
Golden promises and purple faith carried away on a butterfly’s wings
Rest at a honey pit covered in tatters, deeper than rough waters.
Starry eyes spiral down the crescent time’s slow decrown
On the back of a moth flying the blotches
To the roots entombed in a leather shroud.
A sacred aura slain
A belief on the wane
With brown as dry as rust, the leaves part from the swindled tree.