And the beasts, cast down from levels of heaven,
held conclave in stitched fog,
sewn by careless witches
dealing in yarn, with no regard for pattern
nor placement.
Needles sharp, fingers bled rose petals
into beasts' paws,
and God saw 'beginning' in this.
Where had such beauty gone amiss, when?
Surely not His Garden,
where snakes never ventured flowers,
Eve bearing the brunt for mankind,
before birthed.
Witches cackled, knowing their mistakes timely,
misdeeds approved,
gore, the forerunner of cycles.
As ever.
Blooded beginnings.
Rosed dawns.

elysabeth faslund

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/creations-are-unknown/