And then here comes the summer,
Of all the season, this year's summer is the colder.
Cold as blue in the night sky,
Full of sparks but out of high, feeling gray,
But was never in dismay.
By the left arm of the clock, london will be in shocked
For the dead will arise, hauling the roses of light.
With torns, full of torns, dyed with red.
Leaving pigments of liquid in the street, lined with city lights, sprinkled with ancient towers smitten with portmanteau.
Hay of fever season may it seem, but such activity is quite a scheme.
Cold as it may but will wander as part of remedy.
Cold as it may, but will still stand in the top of the mountain, bidding goodbyes.
Indeed it is not all sunshine and sugar.

They say violets are blue,
But I say yellows are bluer.
© Paradox20