the sky as crisp as donation, lumps of sweat filling the treasury. I could tell you more, and so could you.
a wind as fresh as Arch Duke Mayhem, precious spectacle in time of war. tachyon splendour reduces the cost of next Star Trek episodes.
leaves freighted to the colour of ominous onions, grown thru the spires of earth. a just squalour relates the temper of many, thus presidential hopelessness.
ghosts, in the stinky part of condition, represent month and year.
natural year remains, boned and filleted. it will look pretty in your garden.
yesteryear is a dazed smirk.
it lets poems swing for the roof.
it sets an advantage to the groaning ropes anchoring the craft.
above cornfields, arriving legions of beeping clouds and super-electronic modern hope hover. an alien race, if race is the right word, has come prepared.
consider the facts again:
tucked into fear are miserable ghosts. star systems hover above certain cornfields certainty itself is a star system.
elabourate redefinition closes a door, sweeps the floor, and mother returns. eeek!
sports revive the masses. religion is trigger, not opiate. maple leaves have left, and you are just beginning.
here's to the poem within the words of intent. intent resumes the factory, poems mine the day.