Seasonal is the word, forever assumed
Simply pouring down uneasy rain,
Loyal pictures perfume.
Upon this terrain so confused,
Enslaving dire mockery and pain
Harmonious faces gloom.
Trudges past every impression crude,
Desirous breaths of smokeless gain
In dungeons that bloom.

Lodges these in hill so dear,
Wish from perennial doors,
A curtain to blame,
That had the smother escaped,
When from the mist had emerged,
Splendid a cloak on display,
Prince of sorted necromancy
Root of the apt in hunt
Charm the mortal to month.

Hallowed cousins, room and the trees,
Endlessly contemplating,
Of measures a soil seeping.
But origin visions as such
The brother that must contain,
The world his romance to seed
Before another draft is issued in luxury.

Within harmless gazes,
In sharp darkness echo,
Prince, the numbers incidental,
Deciduous lips of the amused
And clatter of the shrewd.

Suitable then I hold,
Disguise the Prince in root,
Graves that speak in woods
Of tales and the muddle
Hallucinating beyond present,
Where images often shatter.
The keeper then recollects
Renewed in conjuring,
The spell afresh to bake.



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