Miles until completion. Rivers bypassed. Oceans dwelled in. Explosive pains, such differing creeds. Too much time suffers; by candlelight and scar. Knowing what you give, I wonder of how much it aches. That deeper region, explored by one giant; curve of one’s disasters, life of one’s dreams. Don’t let us fool you, our need is damn near critical. More literature. More mistakes. More repentance. And it would if it mattered, so occasioned by screams. New America, old roots, as we live one tear to soil. Baffled creatures, filled with needs, an anchor confusing us: spirit of my sanity, days of my years. One would be amazed by it all, to realize in passing, critical magnifiers. Ancient seas, one pursuit, one focus, if to make heaven before hell. And a decent tale, as told to souls, one seeking his visions. In running deeper, defused in parts, wondering what life pushes out of us; soul of my soul, ink of my spirit. So many miles until completion. Such camouflage. With trying to suspect you. Flame of my afflatus. Palms full of symbolism. Angst by fever. So far into history. So confusing. Much taken for granted, more upon a breeze: depth of suspicion, rising lakes. Blamed until blindness. So easy to efface our parts. So many kilometers, so many false nooks, to sit in fluids—damn near abandoned.
