I am to be Allergic To my Art.

I am to be Allergic To my Art.
Allow for a condition, Propped up by A cascading, Decision To stop, Living still And fly.
Entwined in finer cacophony, There in the moving dirt Is a gravity That summons, Us back to grow In the […]
And so they bloom, And with that merrymaking Meets the somber tune, At the legacy After gale’s broom.
Endure for the poise, Of purpose In the purple octaves, That plays For a shaded noise, That activates A way […]