The Village
Henry was saddened by the work of another writer.
It was time for them to leave.
So they went off course for awhile,
Leaving destruction and madness in their wake.
The spring was blossoming with the vagaries of scents
Coming from the roots of loved.
Marigolds, thighs, nosegays, water crescent.
The time was lush with heaven puff.
We crept slowly through this village.
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