Burning at the stake

are the

insides of  demeanor.

Setting fields on fire

is the

darker shade of somber.

All around is fickle,

all around is soar.

Never alone is sickle

More now, than of yore.

Owls are such majesties,

they crown the royal darker.

And those Owls are such majesties,

they royally crown the darker.

The Halo above this crown

is the thing sort after.

The wolves howl at the crescent

in a distant laughter.

Away and above the burning fields

The summer feels colder.

But on that very stake  it breeds

my silent acidic temper.


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