Hill of Red
Umbrella riddled sky of people crazed below
Below in a time crazed flow, in a little row
Little row in which a little rose red stands even littler
Little than the littlest gray color in the mother of Whistler
In dull gray paintings, this itsy sister rose upon it all
All the dark tall misters of a World of a many great wall
These walls of which spurn upon the littlest of heart
Is there no row for the littlest of the red rose caught?
She shuns the big grey wall, with the mightiest shun of all
And runs for the steepest of hills, nigh heaven the great hill spills
With the greatest sight of tall
In the farthest away of black spot
The littlest of red rose heart sits atop, the biggest hill of all
That roses upon the not so big, darkest city of pall.
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