An imposing fortress commences rearrangement.

The walls are well attended to,

coalescing to appease simple vision. 

Greenery and fauna arranged with precision.  

But they were formed in miscalculation;

Spectators voice the landscape’s true view;

shrubs cut too cleanly, the colors too mute.

Pleasant, sans charm, needing more hue.

These walls, quite obviously, were unknowably plain.

So the Lord of the manner withdraws in bane.

“Never again will I strive for ovation! 

Fill in the moat, drive these cretins away!

Inside, the gallery shall be RSVP,

now out, out, out! Without delay!”

Still, quiet verdure stand the fort,

perhaps, one will be worthy...

But no, none shall be known,

without essence lost; without proper weeding.