Springing up from the branches of the great oak tree,
Budding with the elegance of the morning sun.
Displaying your petals of beauty.
Ye boast of the nector as elixor if life.
Communing with the indegenes of the forest.
Ye noweth nothing of harsh winds,
For the air of peaceful fragrance clamours thine memories.
Fighting to exhibit your floral beauty.
Remember thine life routes from the roots.
Ye forgets of the nest provider.
As ye soars through the sky of life.
Exposing thine fragile being.
The lust of torment lurks around.
Thine wings carries ye above grass lands.
Harken to the cries of the bent-backs.
Seek the council of the wrinkle faced.
For thee rests on the falacies of the eye.
Brand them not with the words of ingenuity.
Bow then to their voice if wisdom.
Thine suptle ways rests in the cracked palms of the crooked
Why then do ye rush?
Running a race worth loising.
Fighting a battle worth a truce.
Calm thine harsh flares.
For the trouphy of knowledge awaits ye.
Cast out the enemy in you.
For the angel worths thine hearts.
The Haymaker © 2014