sequence in summer of night embers and daytime lovers

This night in day glenned softly with the down of timber flakes strung along the open meadow has breathed in musky sequence the art off all our fellows, for too true is it that they are dark and clinging but yet also, there is something in their being that makes the blades of grass and yarn of heather flow with measure of what cannot be measured, through mere fertile contenance of adversity’s pleasures do those who hate us for their speckled beings make us shoot like cannon’s blossoms into the art-arch of the sky.
And in this day gleaned night we rust in tombs prepared by automatons who burst in billowy dress the day when it is no longer day, who’s art in lies is no art at all, but pale unreason as meaningful as a quick drawn blade.
Earth shutters its windows in tired repose, ill-seen and unrepenting before the beauty of even the ugliest rose, for not are we meant to live like flowers but rather to spend our petals on our roots that grow tender by spring rain in the early morning hours.
This night in day and this day gleaned night glenned softly with the down of dandelion embers does spark life anew with loving dust and brilliant white wisps of curled soft whiskers feeling for the air that lends its flight to the justice of distant laws and letters.