Contained by to only by warm,
winter blooms in harsh chances that are never notice,
for they are beyond in normal nature,
so in up are as comes before just as so,
sadly only being while thick vine of blindness,
smudge in toxic green of lies and disbelief,
combine all those of sweet dark truth and no matters would ever changed it,
just stuck on a termite bitten bark tree with moss breadth,
play as nature to never change as been forth on.
Seen for every moment,
cold felt stone stroll,
there is lack of peaceful season,
for all those assembly and lone spirit,
that it is only say,
of how a pure wind that gusts through the brim,
on hot wild colorless tinted air,
being only a murmur of its once self.
Follow lonely in hung way high life,
proud of that monotonous rustle harmony that was a tuneless noise,
from almost what others call thought,
bring in the bright will that blinds others in hopeless guilelessness,
said in hush blues,
as the cover blows up and showing how life has come and formed,
in a cycle spinning forever,
becoming that mixture of spring frost in summer,
that is startling on the skin in hard bruises within,
but wonderment to the eyes.
By the river path of those unseen because of simple things only seen by judge at first sight,
never knowing by it,
get nearer since the inhuman debug the humane,
be it soon on the watch when it ticks a final trial of who was precise and who was erroneous,
my deep fall flower garden,
oh how it’s hard to form the right words to tell,
but forest world will listen to all and know not a lone flower is correct in the wrongs,
as the mistaken is lost in the rights,
strike in the vivid shade dusk of silence and be heard,
be it a whimper or a howl.
Leaving in which of that spark of madness is the strongest,
and that soul will go beyond what others will say,
if they are called words that stain tongues in passing years,
in time they’ll all understand,
and thrive off higher than you, lone soul,
with a quiet gentle love of raging passion that only wants to seen and heard,
just as the myth of moon fruit is never been known,
but prowls the tall tales because young minds enjoy it.
Identified only the equivalent seeing that the between being only as the mind let the thoughts go,
linger to the ancient long pieces that in time,
leave over where an wither insect finds a home,
about lands and oceans that only go on for miles,
in soon rounding back,
like a fresh muse night,
cloudless and tearful with gleams of stars,
be it than known as a song during performance because it must in free will,
not because it was told to live up to a status code.
Designed pro above the roots of growth,
lies through a thick rock plate,
binding the spirits to fly,
leaving the beautiful earth alone and empty,
with a few souls notice for they did it right,
and none else,
yet all forget that a spirit doesn’t last forever,
soon they fade,
and forgotten just like the most common things beings do in life to live and die for.
About Author
