It all, actually comes down to a single choice, really.
To be innocent like a softly spoken Blooming tale,
at night.
You can Sell the meaning for art's sake.
You can Read and rejoice and remark like a story,
unavailable.

Walking within the measured lines,
all but circling against the plot.
And, thus Nature is in Bloom.

And The Principle of a behavior is,
****** out from the marrows of life.

And You scream like an idiot, an experienced fool, you are! for him-
there's a script of skinny tales,

And, Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend, again.

Like dizzy doses of death and weary wallets of wishes,
you hear a whisper of grunge.
Sauce and butter and eggs for Lunch.
Walking within the measured lines, you are circling against the plot.

You can Nurture the secrets of stars from,
up above.

Joy, O! joy,
Bleed like a metaphor, a maze of magic moss-
and there are red violins for beats,
Cheap and sold the meaning in brief.

Eating the doses of measured griefs and groans,
And, Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend, again.

Talk like a glassy shade of impermanence at sight,
I can find a mountain to climb,
A soft nestling place where a sickly smoggy winter craves,
For Breeze and beats and boxes of hope.

For, My Nature is In Moody Blues, My Friend,
to clean the little bruises on my soul.