De-weed
De-weed
Should I deweed the soil of my heart! should I plough through!
Stop salty streams and throw in some spring...
Yet shall never whine about the autumn webs, hazy colors dripping into those cold hues.
Colors that tempt the potter's hands...
Churning the pale blood, the potter opines.
Spring can be beckoned and sown always, but autumn is your robe,
The garb that your soul yearns for!
For your soul is not mere, your soul seeks an array of autumns.
To sculpt you into that inflammable sun!