A water flower.
As with those others, I’ll not help you.
Unpetalled, blank papyrus.
Brick bears beams bear rooftiles.
The stained-glass panes, that stretched to reach the heavens, shone.
A bird of prey, at hov’ring height, doth herald.
The footfall flux meanders.
The searsome sun seethes heathaze.
Their lines stretch finite.
Pigeon plays his puff-chest charm.
I write; I drink; I’m passed through.
Whate’er shall I write next?
Verdant-vivid is the tall grass.
In sea-salt-sandy steps.