Sudden Death Syndrome

Crossing over your field. Do you the way death sees it? You see it in me when ever you. Patch and leave these once green. Seeing it beat between the veins. And to much to thus to many times. Perhaps the patch these yellows from fields. Love spurns death and there is an area which it crowds. Earth then the leaf, between the veins. Tissue of the leaf the sun yellow, leaves. Come home to me you are tired. When which of those where then that becomes. Brown, sees, is visible the leaves. To die like patchwork, grace is ascending.