Around The Lane
Sky's paramount is in spaces in between
Nature's brim and outer black galaxies,
Atop like a chalice in the trees—
The red sun's bliss on moon trapping;
By the midst of stars that seep;
Flowers in sparkling wrath happening
In cold's spring—
And so the wheel's turn-out of dreams;
Heaven by herself seems
A bright sting my eyes keep—
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