By gothic winds/strings, lavish upon miracles—
furious penance, in dire need of semblance. An interior box, nascent to life—
furious ascension.
A letter in driftwood, collectable hopes.
Organic, freefalling orison …
in saying bread, in mixing juice.
I dare ask for this, but it shall not remain.
A sky filled by mosquitoes; fields fraught by locusts;
gnawing, kneading life, purely mental, made imaginary.
A park full of mangroves; to move like a turtle; always
thought it was untrue, unclasped with vigor.
Those might in sun fall; moving towards cedar chests, unveiled, losing motion.
Such mountainous brushwork, to prefer this.
Somber joys.
By greater ambition. By sage work.
Those static wailings, ripples across hemispheres.
Flitting by a dusty trail, galloping, filled with virtue.
By a spotless evening, to elicit understanding.
Upon truths, maximums, an imperfect axiom.
Certain candor, to disrupt an otherwise
fairytale.
An aurora, entailing youth, certain perfection.
Upon a problem statement;
encouraged by fey, to fret those codes.
