When Life Is Uncontrolled

There at the closed end of the southern valley, of bending often winding deep such thoughts. Where so often, then at dusk you used to cover me and hide. Ringed in posies, wrapped it darkness, singing birds is loudly spilled The open yawning stare thats blind, but now it sees. By those very trees, and bushes leave the circled vines that climb the walls. Some gouged deep purple and mist floats a cloud, paints over, as it leaves the wall, dew freshly washed blue stained. And life is uncontrolled, and beings uncontrolled, is life when theres no rest.