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.