Hollyhock (Something In Defence of Free Speech)

A language alive grows like a poem of life, blooming crisper red and pink like a hollyhock bud into a spreading of flower, outward from the tip of its less slight-green sturdy sinewed vine. That weather looming overwhelms in a scalding day's brief, harsh turbulent wind, rain and thundered gloom. Used precise in our day's life, with darking skies and rolling whiffs in eyesights limit, “words” flash impacting bolts to electrify fear in the low thin and charge filled air.
The plagued clipper clouds blind our sun, dim our view. Will the storm pass? Will or will not the sun shine mid-afternoon or even the fawning night's dawn reddish evening, depends on strength greater than we hold in our aged young or withered hands. Faith resides in the poetry of a language, our own or your'n, in the petal unpeeling nurtured of nature for a light of past clear time, clearer minds ahead. The holier locked remains in the life that keeps the crisper pink but softens the red in time.
'Til all the thunder, rain, and wind impassioned drift past, to let the light of reason and living free, free from the gale or the ghoulish seers, we see not the sun in this life's day, but the richer praise of the petal bears the truth on this scorched afternoon, with storm but not without the poetic tindered color of living. The hollyhock sweats the effects of its belabored survival, dripping a clear drop by clear drop when the violent lightening lightens. The passing of doom reveals a clearer, whiter sun in a hanging vapor of new blue sky.
The tinged green of static storm hangs not as nutrient nature absorbs. The whipped, now stronger vine hangs elliptic in the curve weighted ever-less by dripping drops of lashed out fury. The repose of grateful flower in its language of lighted reason, the dialogue of nature and the god-like power of time, the bud grows without relent. The relieved restraint of thirst for the repressed voice or hunger for censored food, of poetry or prose, or the language's need to speak free, the beholder of reddish pink hollyhocks against the pinkish red of dusk feels blessed.
The ravage storms pass. We remain at liberty to live another day. The poetry of a petal kept us in our faith. That all things must pass for the new beginnings of tomorrow's brilliant soft blue dawn, another growth day, for the hollyhock vine and life's fruitful, poetic way.

Hollyhock (Something In Defence of Free Speech)

A language alive grows like a poem of life, blooming crisper red and pink like a hollyhock bud into a spreading of flower, outward from the tip of its less slight-green sturdy sinewed vine. That weather looming overwhelms in a scalding day's brief, harsh turbulent wind, rain and thundered gloom. Used precise in our day's life, with darking skies and rolling whiffs in eyesights limit, “words” flash impacting bolts to electrify fear in the low thin and charge filled air.
The plagued clipper clouds blind our sun, dim our view. Will the storm pass? Will or will not the sun shine mid-afternoon or even the fawning night's dawn reddish evening, depends on strength greater than we hold in our aged young or withered hands. Faith resides in the poetry of a language, our own or your'n, in the petal unpeeling nurtured of nature for a light of past clear time, clearer minds ahead. The holier locked remains in the life that keeps the crisper pink but softens the red in time.
'Til all the thunder, rain, and wind impassioned drift past, to let the light of reason and living free, free from the gale or the ghoulish seers, we see not the sun in this life's day, but the richer praise of the petal bears the truth on this scorched afternoon, with storm but not without the poetic tindered color of living. The hollyhock sweats the effects of its belabored survival, dripping a clear drop by clear drop when the violent lightening lightens. The passing of doom reveals a clearer, whiter sun in a hanging vapor of new blue sky.
The tinged green of static storm hangs not as nutrient nature absorbs. The whipped, now stronger vine hangs elliptic in the curve weighted ever-less by dripping drops of lashed out fury. The repose of grateful flower in its language of lighted reason, the dialogue of nature and the god-like power of time, the bud grows without relent. The relieved restraint of thirst for the repressed voice or hunger for censored food, of poetry or prose, or the language's need to speak free, the beholder of reddish pink hollyhocks against the pinkish red of dusk feels blessed.
The ravage storms pass. We remain at liberty to live another day. The poetry of a petal kept us in our faith. That all things must pass for the new beginnings of tomorrow's brilliant soft blue dawn, another growth day, for the hollyhock vine and life's fruitful, poetic way.