The odes are an acquired taste,
the flavour you absorb in a sense
that just happens to be immense.
Anything that is ordinary goes to waste.
Autumn is based on an off colour remark,
blended into a sky or bee hive
where summer\'s gold diggers need to survive.
The word painter shuns the time-warped bark.
Keats is the obituary writer in a different life,
nourishing the earth for a idea to bear fruit
and take sensitive nerves to the purest root.
He carves careers out for a prospective wife.