The Plain Sentence of Lineage

nouns are the last treat. we read a book on the airplane in the sky's ocean first. we drive that kin such a way! then power of falling said, oh plane truth, we fell as a signal long turd. the loss of falling was no relief. we hung, a loop in variable, and every word was text. how's that for fair play? we sent a loss language toward the gift. it was no an airplane at all. falling is sinking. the ocean, then, was under the clouds that were forested with us, as the numbers we make make us. our life was a noun that clenched. we folded our hands for the force of more words. each word is different, somehow. the plane truth was form. we flew above the simple clouds, into the merrie nest of newness. this is a stain that stays. the staying is called clouds. clouds fall into seas, seas remain aloft with the last time of the sentence definition. each included word made a new text. those other words, left out, formed nothing at all. the plane went awry, as if bursting were a period. if the period were so final, where did the next sentence come from? we aren't true to our words? but poetry isn't an effect, it is what is left. or maybe what left is poetry. or a word isn't really there when poetry is. is this a fair assessment or is all falling just a plane agreement with the weathering force of clouds over oceans when the meaning is clear? the noun might remain, but verb tense moves on. a poem sticks to its roots, proving nothing. nothing, at such time, is at its best.