Little pastures of browning, but the pellet grey sky won't stop short. Lighter than air particles of thought stream loving stems of opening flowers. It doesn't work to sad. The words around only stand for timing all the effort left to us. This is the measure for even the winter day of rain. Love is the mention every day. The way thru is the way you.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Monday, January 11, 2016
Christmas Father and Mother, the rock seems like too much continent now. The lacking rain forms nowhere much on the stuffed land we dream of. Christmas brother or what you call you now, let the noise remain. There is a story sitting in revolt. No one has enough. I want you, catalogue, enough to say town of people town.
and all the effort that went into it. Such as the day as could be given, taken, seen, or heard. The vast lesson hid in plains and turrets, peaks of surprise. Which person could be better today, if time didn't matter? The letters of each word seem surprised by the latest flurry of doubt. We will help each person, someday, to the height of the open sky. Let that be the basis of our imperial thunder.
Perplexed with raincoat or even the cold wind from all of yesterday, the person standing by. We will watch this person, the sum of verbs and nouns of speech that elicit appropriate or unneeded adverbs and adjectives. What are you talking about, Person?
We have seen children, even elderly ones, in their loss and timelessness. Someday a support will arise and occur. Someday that music, not bleating or the tribe gone for horizon. Someday on the offing of this expressed vintage. Desultory today but perhaps someday. Person, can you wait?