People, formicating over the sidewalk.
Life's gold leaflets are turning.
Ignorance is a forest of constricting ivies, blinding blues and greens, and a lustful burgundy.
I live here, in this untamed garden, a sorcerer of dreams that sit complacently in their own spheres, like dewdrops in the low-hanging brush. Shift if and when they want, but they never do...
Under gleaming sunlight beaming through the branches above, I am burning.
Clouds roam, skulking my skies, they are the call of fate. They are understanding.
Ash is in the air. The ashes I wished upon this old, throbbing place. A beautiful, wonderous, capricious garden place must die. This unweeded forest is for the flames. For our sake and for our intellectual salvation, fire must swallow my melancholy.
One day, my trees, the eccentricities and indolences will flood this Earth again.