by nine-year-old
timpani of thresh
or
fears rolled into glacier’s tongue,
souls
at perdition pure boiled flesh,
by
nine-year-old timpani of thresh.
as
born of trials dear penitent death,
if
but freedom we would have none:
by
nine-year-old timpani of thresh
or
fears rolled into glacier’s tongue.
the future is distinct such
purgatorial trials or twine attached to our compasses. the deceit of the belief
or leaves upon asphalt those legs walking near his flame. such dogwood or edge
rock such sweet/sour wine. to have loved or to have spoiled where faucets drip
honey. so decided upon a miracle while vying should feel normal. such a
sensitive man such an adolescent, where more sends one into depression. as such
in astrology a given sign while most souls distaste competition; just adore me
as me only in a society promoting practicality. but Love is timpani or a soft understated
cello or some piano hanging from a ceiling. such raw seduction such fiery heels
so playful one forgets his reality.
the ransom is somewhat peculiar.
most possess a combination. we tinker by form of guidance. indeed, a person
will lead a suitor, or manipulate circumstance, in a game requiring picklocking.
signs mean nothing, for Love is lethal, such grime, class, precision, and
execution. to get into location to outline a heart in chalk or to renege by way
of hiccups.
somewhat different in me such
elegance while so wild. a man keeps balance until he loses balance while raving
internally. a woman has a session, some spectacular episode, she enters the
restroom, looks in the mirror and smiles. so much spitfire wittiness or
political savvy at some position esteemed by officials. but a tear shall fall a
pain will enter, for we need such excitement. a guy is notorious. many know his
name as cad or a byword. but women seem to take interests. he has a feather. he
plays guitar. he recites poetry. indeed, he specializes at some art—the favor
of pleasing—he studies what women desire. they’re his musicality. he sways in
them. he is not afraid to love.
I return to purgatory some life we
debate some angle we can’t verify. but if pain is waiting, or pain is
existence, we can’t discount the remedy of climaxes. a slingshot to a bottle, an
hourglass to a prison. or the praise given for the labor of seduction. so, a
person screams aloud, he tucks all of his files, in chase of something that
offers not a grunion of promise.
