Gathering paw prints. Such soreness: devastated islands. To cringe and make passion. (It was an uneasy plateau, disputable kindness.) Anything to breathe again, such uneven charity. With Love ever closer, facing a wounded response. Life and dungeons: not to mention new critics. Humans must repent the future. Nothing is at rest. Everything is to be won. Give us grace, Father! You must know the plight of souls! I can never un-feel it, never deflate it, knit by many ruins. I was filled with rivets—life made ripples; seas are unstill. With a beating heart, a craved spirit, she might learn depth value. Upon a whisper, most accountable, sensing something askew; like needing one to assess, so easily forgetful, life is ever by repercussion. If to know thyself, much more begins to matter. Ask us about those points in life where desperation availed a great debate; too much to fathom it, as to ask, what is the grand fight about: have we not analyzed humans? The few make it seem incredible. Gathering paw prints. Devastated by depth admiration. To cringe and make passion. So dear in a short time. So wise in a hidden veil. So much behind a curtain. Too tremendous the arts—to know a man’s psyche, in dungeon deep reigns, presuming completeness. Take us home!
