Its
subtle a season, a thicket for musing, a cultic reality. I
watch
for windows, afire purely, to silken white noise. It
entails
music, where phantoms sail—mystic oceans.
There’s
a tinge—of flaming rites, brewing for an opus.
We’re
met spellbound, to wire a gemstone, where one may
smile.
Its dark for surreal, another for issue, another for
triumph.
I laugh it not, sighted sorely, winged for
boundless.
There’s for beauty, admired coldly, to cherish
a
moment. I reckon to tremble, to feel for fire, streaming
songbirds.
I topple forward, to stumble backwards, as
somber
as nurses. Its artful a fall, a bit for rapture, a bit for
mercy.
It’s a rising grace, a steaming pyre, for beauty’s
gall.
There’s a floret flame, trickling beneath—florid
hearts.
We trek a coppice, fraught with vim, dancing through
a
garret. Oh an umbra, a flickering shadow, to samba with
struggles.
We pilot such beauty, to lament such portraits, to
amble
through grottos. It’s keen for shores, a gesture of
glamour, gently a
mystic breeze.
