Fate Preserved...
Behind the house the meadow looms that's also made of many rooms where treading feet have trampled halls and trees suggest surrounding walls and flowers now expectant wombs are splashing colours of their blooms against the grass they rise beside of greater reach as if to hide from tiny hands that cannot know that as bouquet they cease to grow except as beauty briefly seen amid arrangement where they lean to beckon fate they might preserve by oil and canvas they could serve. Portly Bard Portly Bard: Old man. Ekphrastic fan. Prefers to craft with sole intent of verse becoming complement... ...and by such homage being lent... ideally also compliment.
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August 2022
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