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Dandelions Like Batteries to the Green

Updated on April 25, 2016

The electrical storms of nature

That the yellow of the cowards carpet bleed to electric life in the hands of children, scattered seeds to carpet a green. I had seen in them a roar, that bees need and a wine that men needed and that the globe was a static discharge that windmills knew. Many were unwanted, or careful hand dug. Some poisoned in haste, I was the knelt man in the green daily. Knife in hand with pitched head to dig the roots out of only a few in the green, for care made them less than global on the fields.

That they dead head in air, or heir, flights of fancies was nature's hands to spread life in a blanket on the mind's of fearful lawn boys and girls. That some moths made them the landing pads, like helicopters needing a rest for injured wings, they would in flight again. It was a storm of life, that was more than electric if the covers were laid down for the rains to settle them goodnight in their sleep. That it was reproduced in many wombs of nature and spirit, was the sightless and deaf to ponder.

A mattress that some popped off like the yellow brick roads of insects and lovers in the low lying grasses, blue in fescue sometimes. It was the dance of lions that some called dandy and some called weeds that maddened the man or women in the fields, of homes lawns. No care in some Kali-less flower patches, and then they were the beauty.

That some like never ending were poisoned was man and nature for they both handed the tools and the minds to seed change. A cursed gift at times, reflecting minds. Nature to breed minds and then look up at the nature that changes it to a new compost.

In some homes, they brewed disaster as children gave them to eyes that never loved them, that then in jars of water seen the homes inside of mind, wood, nature, water filth that the minds of careless thanks forgot, and the child happy to be gardener to the mind's eyes of others. It may be a crystal of fertilizer, and some thought that it was a worthless gift, yet then in their beliefs they all rest here forever.

To make the gods alive in the beliefs they hated to live, love, beauty, and gifts. Those three gods of formless meaning alive now in the real, like all words do walk in child's beliefs. Some home for hurt flowers, that were weeds in an eye are now weeds in the nature of the grounded eyes. That wings would fly by them and untouched their hurt and beauty, now they see the flightless lives of them that would poison a child on purpose for another's soulless need.

A jar, the door to beauty or a shut to the truth that gifts are never returned to the one's they wish not leave. Like the knelt man, praying the day away in the grass to weed the needs of loneliness out of the mundane and see the sun on the reflecting natures of life. Mundane then on the floor again, then on the ceiling reflected the roots of global seeds. Scattered to the unseen forests of wait and see the crop on the lawn without care.

Either a pitch in the dirt of the roots that hurt, yet the needle in the poison of pesticide floors is the mirror of the blood of the rain, that is the green beans of destruction that lives in the fields. Nature washes many of the rains to the filter of more than this whole, yet this is careful in the knelt burnt offerings that the flower lords need. Let them see the animals on the floor wanting leaves of green and yellow nasturtiums and poppy cock that means nothing in the veins of the dead in the trees burning from rebirth.

It is the a hither tither back and forth that the rain or rein is what it means in sight, that there are only weeds in the field if their are minds to see them as weeds or if there are meanings. I would bow and pray like a ladder to the backs of sunbeams and belly to the shed grass, then in tables of men I fell, in the missions of either sides. It was this in the cat fancy rubbing that grass was once in the fields. That they are in this the lion, the king of needs or wants. See the bee leave, the grass wilt, the neighbors help, and then the beds not cared in the sheets never sung.

For give a note of the run off of life and test the yellow on the eighty year old deafness or blindness to their own truths on gardens. They see the thoughts they remember and the suffering of the colors minus the heart that tended the beds, it was neither mine nor the either for long, in constant gardening for turning styles and forked tunes.

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