Endless Green

On Gate, by Owen Gromme, 1927

Fields of blush with endless celadon.

A gift from the heavens as beauty has risen.

Smells of freedom with all peace.

As I lay in awe, engulfed with pure lush,

I wonder if there can be a moment more pure.

Skies filled with ultramarine

clouds more pearly white than ever gray.

I see now a gate yet to be opened.

A gate seemingly serving no purpose

A gate of representation, no physical need.

A gate to keep moments like this pure.

This is a world that can't be touched.

A world deprived of human retribution.

This is a future with endless green.

If the gate is to be opened it is only obscene to be seen.