There are devils poised on every leaf. Today's vaporous crux is not so benign and heavenly that an antidote for old whirligigs can be unearthed to face afternoon.
Waters blossom below sea eagles stylistically similar to sweeping Olympic swimmers in ash-blond sky.
These billows are not barrows yet, but they surround, distantly. Somber is the borough where flaxen flare on rooftop lolls, unaware of the petty golgothas sculpted thereunder. No lofty peace can disseminate seedlings over low stone. No smell of peace may rise. Solitary Atlases lug the gist, each amassed burden lashed is bound to someday bend and slip slowly onto milky eyes.