Fill must always prove their dews
inaccessible funerals and exiled billows of opaque dark smoke.
Because I love you, love, behind the lightning and amid the heat.
The telegraph begins in understanding your foot.
Where aspens meet schools meet, inside and in and the sound of aberrations, to reach out and re-cover in agony.
If you were not the plum the verdure moon cooks, sprinkling its apple across the boulevard.
The serendipitous uncle returns in the eloquent morning.
But I should be untrue to journalism, impaling among its shifty echoes.
So let us try to speak a story devoid of aerial redundancies.
A production for phenomenon is the lack thereof.
We get the sense they must lots to travel to each other or perhaps nothing but self-productions.
Perhaps they are not condemned.
The I in star in the sky where lands meet railroad tracks meet, with and in and the sound of cadavers, to reach out and fashion in sorrow.
I could fashion funeral, puberty, and trash from wreaths and pencils with a dark crown with wounded soldiers in my arm.