I picture my crossed legs, cresting a mound of ephervesent green, not tumult Sky with shadowed cloud, but cherry kissed blue rolling with heat.
The morning song sweeps the vale, harkening the beast and fresh fauna arouse, and the morthered trees wheaping away glass tears of mid morning shower.
Not a sound of combustion smoke, or thick air laced with chemical cloak.
But licked breath of sun flower fume, and jolly ring of a blue **** call back tracking the day of English country side sun.
Village in the deep pathed with rosened brick, cobbled with years to their name.
Thatched and single glazed sleep the houses of those in pleasure to live, away from sound and smoke and ever reluctance to give.
Yet bestowed from my world I am ****** back through to a bench in embankment side.
My village blown by September breeze and blue *** lost for lacking of trees.
The birds song unsung and arrogantly moved by the slamming tune of metalled wheels. Locals March by with mission and no excess, thoughts of exploration never sound as each space in the city has already been found.
My poet talk resents the city, as country birth implanted my eye and captures my spirit with intrigued motivation.
Yet opposites attract in such manner or Fashion, that crescent streets and busses red, fill my eyes with more movement than words ever said.
And unfinished I want to be here, to inhale the fume and absorb the sound, and so that upon return to my fields of green, my dream of birds and thatched village lay, that not the strongest of mid September breeze, could ever blow away.

Summer in Bermuda, licker could be nice
An over dramatic garden
on a phosphorescent football.

There's a stream running through,
In translucent yellow.
Fertile with life passing by.

This thing inside me, this army of strife,
Is soldiering around me against the malitia of life.
I'm passing by with a strong gain of muster,
Treading through the garden with childlike guster.

Smoke another cigerrette, dream of watching four tet.
Guess you could call this the calm before the storm.

There's a rushing and flowing of following feelings,
I'm down on my knees, hey buddy I'm kneeling.
Something's taken over my skin,
its inside my soul and its making me thin.
Its making me cold and its filling me with sin.

Holding me tight, don't give up,
but its stealing away my fight.

Alfie is losing the battle with life,
a violent attacking from and army of strife.

He's not out for the count though,
I still have my mind, Its not making me blind,
I got my thoughts and I'm still quite kind.
I'm here for the long run.

riding through a vibrating sleep,
cut in grooves so fine and deep,
I have found it son,
get me cake,
and have some fun.

Theres something you gotta know,
its about what you eat, and how you grow,
don't spend it all at once was never a verse worth versing,

Im taking it all in, revolving ribbons of roads untangle infront of me
set into a space cap searching for snap back,
Oh I believe in yesterday, looks as though its here to stay

comment in the box bellow,
for a case of cheap merlot,
its about what you eat and about how you grow

Cut me into a nice new groove,
how are your socks?
how are your shoes?

You fall through thoughts as a lonely dove does.

Much like the rose that was not red
or the dog that never wants to be fed.

Finding anicent springs of hold land beauty.

These places succumb to a mind only so bold
take out my hands, they're yours to hold.