Misdirected

Oh ye dark clouds of Tempest Spirit
the meager means in thy indifference.
What subtle nuances in thoughts and deeds
shall bring death! to our deep blue seas.

Rosebuds! the broken hearts of angry bees
the death of the sparrows! our world is in peril.
Did spring advance the prism in my mind?
distorting the effects of the parallel lines.

Do falling leaves from dyeing wilting trees
record the passage of time, end to all mankind.
As green no longer surrounds running springs
the dust of sorrow produces cities of harrow.

Oh what shall we make of these twisted vines?
devoid of reasoning representing our time.
Search our past, though we stomp! then stumble
thought less while heart less this spell we’re under.

A simple touch! returns the rhythm to the rhyme
a simple harmony in search of a measure in kind.

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