Passive Hues
fréolic chocolate-branches form upon
meadows beyond the tessellated glass
of my home. Whither upon meadows who's
horizon meets with the fading sunset;
translating to nights of bright creations
who fall out of gravity in flames to
enkindle Nostradamus prophecies.
Osier you hold the key to the roots.
Without you, who is the fruit tree to
appreciate for the reaped blossoms;
Oh, Grana Double Tree.
Thy poise divides on the
Myrtle balance of my
lands. Dynamic as the
Mediterranean.
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