Domme (Part 7): a way out

It’s not really hell, domme morrigan, you see a fiery rain of speech craft,

A crown bursts from a bush, being locked there it’s breath for society’s cursing,

Bush of crowned colours – orange and green – take colour as a point,

To which I give this meaning, in mine eyes, dear, yourself colourful

Grew from a bush begat from a crown that burst thru society’s own making,

You in the bush I see, God’s looking at thee, crowning thee, this way out of hell, g

Out from thy colours, God’s bush inside thee, God’s crown, I’ll place on ye