Flowers bloom to catastrophe dust, what if we're nothing?
nothing at the soil, nothing with a soulful dreams
grain of dust, poles of pole
holes in the ground, always a wagon of seasons from.
Come and buy, orchids of lemon grass snapped
free in wild verse, mourn that flies in the summer
starts, wandering in the same valley
where cigarettes of smoke yells.
One has a whisked face,
One is trailing like snails,
Furry, tumbling hurry: they're tucking scurry,
Like a rushed mob, lost in the woods.
Leered with sly traces, he rears the same smile
always look teared up to the sky,
Nights are still young, cheer to the tedious frey
rocking one to and fro, stories of another astray.
In the deadly stands. . .
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Part (ii) is coming up!