Spring
The sun shines in a friendly glow while the birds sing mating songs, searching for
that lost bond of intimate natural longing. Greenery illuminates the path through the
garden, colorfully decorating the atmosphere with contentment. Leaves drift
beatifically to their resting place in the aura of serenity; wisdom in the blossoms
wherein dastardly royalty is usurped by inane benevolence. Such generosity cannot
freely bandy about when originated from petulant systems of feigned philanthropy.
Evidence mystifies the instituted kindness with otherworldly martyrdom prevailing
over dynamically advantageous disproportion. A youthful sprite exudes sage
harmony that listens intently to ruminated introversion and callously disregards
obnoxious outburst. A twig snaps into seventy equivalent sections; equilibrium
begets solitude among the predetermined assortment. Begin again and sweetly
profound anew. Did it start? Nevermore, with the exception of a shift in the concept
of causality's influence: kleptomania for knowledge and acceptance of besmirched
spirits. Souls pine for an existential seed to spurt roots and permeate the dirty
confinement. Cyclical imperfection trudges through sludge, almost cinematic in its
unveiling. It is astounding in each fresh, yet repitious succession. A song skips lyrical
lust and jumps to instumental amelioration: The symphonic glory of all
encompassing, magnificent, eternal, ascending powerfully and synthetically
descending, original, cooperative, and unorthodox love.
Copyright © James Lockaby | Year Posted 2011
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