In a world of distraction, focus is precious. O Mother of owls, kneading concentration, tales have run ramped—through tundra(s), islands, and shadows. In feeling essence, a soul’s smirks, occasioned to smile, sweet vinegar. One frets expatiation, a one-to-one correlation, baffled by God’s Guitar. To adore exospheric lights, enchanted by a vision, making too much of distress, aged to have loved, indebted to one miracle; and one was peeved, jasper oils, to have made much ado over nothing. Such gracious identity—a soul excavating its spirit, if telling bones to live. He wasn’t allowed to rant, nor rave, finding excellence in silence. She ached his syndrome, made of ribbons, to cross wires in one attempt to let go. She was half of it back when. She must become all of it by now. Another is keen, a blazing wit, he unties the seams.
