It was spirit of the time.
The lethal trade of─
missiles, someone was sending free.
You collect the cachet
of bleak weather. The
roses were in bloom.
Trying to conceive the
buttercups in the blue─
frame of melancholia.
I err, and find myself
in sleep after the contact.
A genetic gratitude overwhelms.
You catch the stings
blindly. The other sin will
take care of itself in blood.