It's been perpetuated. Archeologically timed, primed and adjusted. I am organically, a tartly steamed wallflower, hair wined from the petals of a dragon's breath, queen of ten sheets all blue and green like the nips of the Chesapeake Bay, tongue heavily cheeked, I am the bulb beneath the shrines of your muck, I am your weak-behind-the-knees, wallflower. The hue you pasted against the fours of your walls and only remember when your eyes trace your skies from the ceiling to your bedroom floor.