Walk the Line

Solar chlorophyll soaks foliage,
circling new cycles.
Spring rain paints a tainted pallet,
permeating a languid landscape of
monochrome complexion;
toiling, boiling, bubbling
into
sepia hues
seeping through
peering youth retinas,
exploding synapses of optic sensation
bleeding badly, splattering violently
over a vibrant canvas like Van Gogh.
Bold brush strokes
rush a blush of euphoria
coursing forcefully through elevated knees and
swaying flailing limbs
striding on spongy steps,
marching a merry line like
toy soldiers tramping their own fresh path
over a well-trodden path
surrounded on all sides
with wild
unbridled
wonder.