We are a blended essence of overnight candied cotton and the exhalation of a cedar.
We are unknown dark wine and sawdust and too much poignancy in ethereal vegetables.
We are a spring bird in the snow, a low rumbling of evening horizon thunder, a chorus of raw symphony and paisley flutterings.
We are nominally polar--the realest of dreams--the bear and his scrawny boy; a crinkled satin curtain covering a pane of no prerequisite.
We are solid, bathed in the dew on clovers.
We are the breeze breaking for a star, just as the un-breathable air stills.
We are calloused like jazz on well-worn brass, threaded with emerald and skies.
We are unknown dark wine and sawdust and too much poignancy in ethereal vegetables.
We are a spring bird in the snow, a low rumbling of evening horizon thunder, a chorus of raw symphony and paisley flutterings.
We are nominally polar--the realest of dreams--the bear and his scrawny boy; a crinkled satin curtain covering a pane of no prerequisite.
We are solid, bathed in the dew on clovers.
We are the breeze breaking for a star, just as the un-breathable air stills.
We are calloused like jazz on well-worn brass, threaded with emerald and skies.
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