The Seed Off the Rescue

Let alone in the timeless wilderness
in quint blue moon,
the weather almost at its numb hues
turns to a quarrelsome mid affair.
It’s plain midnight and all the wooly mountains are up for sale
But wind don’t run uphill for no other reason
Unknown and unassailed, the reed are doing a run
and almost all square fields are running amok

No plaintiff to reek off into the flavors
Has it been that the wild oak turns ajar the burlesque
Whatever pents into the jeer lurks a fear
No! The haul has yet to see a remedy

Changing into a culled march, the feathered find rest

There are no seeded fair you find this February rain.
Undone and inked are the symbols faring through the sea
No teeth to run into the flesh
the jaw is breaking laughing
If you risk a letter into the herd of beasts, you’ll know
they are celebrating

Rocked or ruined, the carousal is swinging
The frill is still a rescue away – a risqué off cure

It still is nestled in the heights
But you can feel –
the burning effigies of the past
and it runs a dallied deed

You see it above all clouds
like a picturesque sun wallowing all worries

© Prateek joshi and WordPress, 2018
Image © bomb crater #45 (Bulau) by Henning Rogge

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