Lanes
Alleys long paths.
Dreamscapes.  
Valleys of fallen rock,
A stream trickling through it.
Carving slowly to the bed
Rock beginning
Just south of the choctawahatchee
Where the Sand white as snow
Makes false santas,in fall
And there then
As bushes thorny grey
Close in
Encompass,it all
Then

The

Most kiss,often
Comes
Whilst

In a mirror
On a cold day in
December

From a moist breath
From the north pole