Through rain water, to the lagoon, a mile further than
the creek—to live sin, abandoned early-on, prayed in essence, longing for
perspective, given hostility. It would exist, an incredible hunger, feeling
lethargic, if misunderstood, hell-souls were too baptized. Many are winning,
many are holding to examination, many more can’t be bothered—to live, letting
live, a form of celebration. Right across the table, mouths shut, if souls
understood what the scriptures say; it’s recorded for a reason, it happens daily,
a soul is misclassified, misunderstood, and often, directed sadly; thus, it
ends, it starts in another soul, like fever in the skies—striking thunder,
coming to earth, another is too much to retreat. So hidden it's seen, made more
hermetic, driven into excellence—landing on the bulwark, fencing the interior,
to no avail: trying spaces, tinkering with a flute, last song of the
journey.
