While I discover to hum the pale blue light,
a pandemonium of earthy attires
march on the airs’ blitz
joyous at its fall as at its tall stature.
Pillions waft off smell, aureus off the November rain,
hanging by a thread, traipsing towards a chilly winter
like daffodils staring the lily cool, oiled away from all that is ill,
full to the brim the streaks pry across the streets, about the lush.
The fiddle that dreams of garbs to gulp,
in its evening guise rushes up the chandelier,
berrate bridled angst into the canopy
distort daylight through interfering aerials.
In the close gathering that quips, reads the evening satyr –
it peeves out of its decadence a storming new girth of utterance
as it piles gestures away from the hemlock’s rhythm
it juttes on to a shattering sickle.
While the weeds have cropped in full
the gilded robes have garnered grim carols,
loots off grove and mimicked ruse off the ruby blues,
fielding out colours; the break that veers flutes
away from the fizzle, those upsurges, and usurps
the Cartered Carousal that jinx upon flutter
to a dawn that discusses dews on lips of grasses
while the waters wet the wedded buds and the flowers.
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