Soggy soil gets replaced with stone. A flower that fine tunes a pleasant tone. My eyes have labeled it as art. Time constantly goes but where did it start. Seeds need more than water to grow. Without a switch a glow. The North Star holds the blanket glow. He without sin can cast the first stone. The more you know, time does grow. Words register with the correct tone. Remember where you came from the start. The journey you traveled appears in your art. Embraced emotions are the brush strokes of art. Like a lightening bug on an autumn day glow. Until you take action it remains on start. Love won’t turn a heart to stone. There is no emotion within a leveled tone. Every step is a chance to grow. She grow; he grow: we grow. Even when not abstract it’s art. Whimsical appeal has a softened tone. Turn down the lights to see the jewel glow. A broken heart is not made of stone. It makes sense to finish away from the start. There’s always a point where it did start. Even the vine crawls as the times grow. Forgotten flowers don’t turn to stone. Perspective is a work of art. Through the shrouds the trinkets hold glow. The flowers house a lovely tone. Substance holds weight with a tone. When a bow breaks the break has a start. Through pupils the eyes glow. With time it shall all grow. Love in itself is art. A melted heart won’t turn to stone. The external stone with an internal tone. Holding original art flowing the whimsy to start. Just a weird rock that continues to grow with glow. E. Ex.