The Misguided

Oh ye’ dark clouds of tempest spirit

thy meager means in thy indifference. What sublet nuances in thoughts and deeds shall bring death to our deep blue seas. Rose buds the broken heart of angry Bees, the death of the Sparrows, our world is in peril. Did spring’s advance the prism in my mind, distorting the effects of the parallel lines. Do the falling leaves from dying and wilting trees record the passage of time, the end to all mankind. As green no longer surrounds the running streams, the dust of sorrow produces cities of harrow. Oh what shall we make of these twisted vines? devoid of reasoning representing our time.

Search our past though we stomp! then stumble thoughtless while heartless this spell we’re under.

A simple touch! Returns the rhythm to the rhyme, a simple harmony in search of a measure in kind.