By measure and cross to have mercy with devastation;
by sin with wine to love like dragons, one person in his lifetime. Banished to
association, so bright the bandit in pain, with Love agreeing to give one
pardon. I muck it up. I damage the professor. I repent for memories are
sickening. By a demon’s song, the devil’s cry, by a ritual—I’d never
collaborate; so sudden to have debate; so southern to have hospitality; in
ground hogs to find filth, in pigs to see deaths, in matrimony to find divorce;
old casual mate, more to me than life, in eyes elsewhere, the treatment is
sorrowful; to need to feel like dirt, to kill what provides deaths, to sit in a
room—rocking and swaying in rain. Most can’t imagine hell. Others are living
hell. Some are playing a terrific flute: Mysterium and violin; cello and
clarinet; the pain we give back when too damaged to breathe.
