If given two gravels out of four,
Would he figure out which one
Belong s to him in the eyeing second,

And as his hand embraces the
Fete red stone, the latter seems
More paternal, his maternal
Instincts chide in the genetic al
Crooked nose bridging vines,

Though his fingers form a fortress,
Mating to build a dream out of
Stones he picked, eloquent it's
Not his own, battered and
Borrowed, and like the needle
Twice its strength in one inch,
Soundlessly sewing and mending,

His castle is a forgotten rainbow,
A ballad which spent its summer
In the pocket of his haggard denims,

And how does he inculpate the stone
For dreaming to turn into the azure
Bastion, it did not dream of the
Possibility, like a cocoon facing the
The Metamorphosis they were
Quiet, hushed over, alike wolves crying,

And his affability is like a handclasp,

The Cottage is someone’s citadel,

an embellishment for
the Mason, whose smiles rests in the
Crooked nose your instincts point to
Turn away from the fete red agate.