Apples On An Archer's Range

The floor is the sky,
Endless black with white light,
it sits like us when we lie,
a scornful potent night,

Now its brown,
Makes us hurt and we're bored,
We look endlessly down,
Nothing to us but crossed swords,

Infinite math folding miles,
Connecting dots one by one,
With gold smiles,
War is undone,

Forest green soreful illusion,
Cure for diagnosed pain,
Insane talk mental confusion,
Freedom killing the brain,

Remembering the cure,
Once absurd never heard,
Unwritten word unpure,
Dreams obsequiously procured,

Complexity forms,
Colors under eyelids change,
Quiet under storms,
Apples on an archer's range.