The macro lens, it does persist, To render yet, t' inane.
In Erect Defect, the poor stand proud, A Splash of greens persist.
It shouts it's fame, and does quite loud, While others hence, resist.
The Ghosts of Summers Past all dance, To song of hues, await
They fade into the distance, trance, And wait upon their fate.
The Colour Void, it bears no soul, No witness of it's prey.
Suspended sport, the patient hole, They wait for such fine day.
The promise of new life, prevails, In Ochre Ovaries.
And as it's been, it never fails, Nature ne'er to "freeze".
Our Spiral Spawns, upward it goes, It looks toward it's right.
At reach of end, upon tip toes, It one day flourish, might.
In Chroma Creep, amidst it's dull, and lifeless carpet holds.
A pose so grand, of untold wealth, Inherent beaut', unfolds.
The Kiss of Green, it sends the thought, To those that are behind.
Of promise, colour, all not nought, One day they will have shined.
