A bow but no arrow A string gone unplucked The devil lost me in Georgia I suppose it was bad luck

Pieces scattered, all around, like stars upon the ground. Gather each to build anew, a creation known to few.

If something is left unkempt, a colony attempts. By the point you notice it, what was a ripeness is past tense. Smells, rancid, start to vent. Experienced it upsets sense. From spoiled, to the core it’s used, as vocal, to ferment.

I have eyes, but cannot see. I need to reach the character minimum

In a twist of green, I bring peace to the table, yet my branch speaks of harmony. A tiny orb in the lands of sun, I flavor both peace and feast.