The Brook Writes Its Blue Dream
Its fragrance,its aroma may
be felt by the windy,
naked rose.
Sometimes it flows so sweetly,
so brightly, to dominate
its darkness.
Its enduring, aroma
is the fragile, brittle mirror
of an abyss.
Its shadow is frequently
the craggy
saw-toothed lily.
Marky or not,the brook
usually crosses the devastating
cliffs,sipping the invincible
sky.
If we infuse it with dusty
grassy tears ,it'll be
a formidable task.
The searing joy sounds
an unflinching,iron bird.
Its scarlet transformation sparkles
with a torrential,stony
sunrise.
Every stride echoes in
the chambers of the
flowery star.
Every smile,every glimpse
holds a hiden truth.
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