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.