So tender the
dice, asking for matrimony, depending on excellence; if sustaining the night,
the gravel bleeding, success in a bottle; trying not to sail the ship, asunder
with the winds, passion off of beauty. When it comes around, the grave
grieving, and time gave up ghosts—to swoosh and swirl into justice, by arts and
crafts, so cursed, life was good; indeed, fathom contradiction, or unlikeness,
a ghoul in me, a monster in clouds, and God came for mercies. In due game, hunted
through wilderness, and Love was polite that morning; like dying was goodness,
or living badness, such an affect for a teacher. Usually, one is early, or
late, Love married the one loving her more; and fire dripped, love soft and
tender, so gathered to have lived. Flame made into pudding, so captured, so
sick, if to tell the future: a taller creature, a vulnerable heart, upon a
toothache—by three days a fever, so much deception, and Love adores the photos.
