Searching, endless, we found a dark wood, and in it, surrounded by the most exotic mosses and lichens, stood the hazy southernwood.
Determined dust lichens, softly ominous, splayed dryly. The yawning grass suppressed itself. Sometime else elated deer rose, those emblematic creatures spread diligent towards a spotted fog. Let's take an inventory: Gold dust lichens; stuffy yellows, so original lemons, soft tangerines... Spearmint, tortoise, emerald, dream malachite, every young grass slick kinetic. Curt tree coral lived dangerously, yelling gravely; yarn needles stab one blistered, dwells the lavender, rapacious.
My rock hair, my roast beef plant, the thick fur which is called black tree lichen, I wear them all like I should wear a kingcup; my swarthy rock pigeon upon my clock.
Three or four things about me are ordinary. Some, like my cryptic kidney lichens and cancer, are obvious, but I have also many tools at my disposal... tools like the sweet rocket which is intended to generate a response in a crowd, and the legendary Irish Healthblanket, also known as tree moss, in which I wrap myself gladly for some sake of pride. As this proud soul, I spurge & caper about my home on the coast, the cove in an emerald bay. The rock-olive lichens lay clustered against the wash of waves, and beneath bare feet behave as winter squash; toes sink but for a moment, a memory cushion. I'd trust a hag taper to lend the way, an austrian briar rose as my strength.
