A sentence is a train station. The train begins to explode. It continues exploding, with a bolt of action verb. It finishes exploding.
This is my stop, says the writer. Writers say, say now.
Stopping is pelagic. Shadows of oceanic occurrences inveigh against the cool mammal within. Oh. My.
A poem is pelagic, but that does not help the condition. Condition, that is, of carrying sentences to their plump reward. With reader in tow. Hello reader, glad that you could.
A sentence is a place where Yeti stops. Yeti mountain stops.
This material example is praxis, constancy among urges.
A sentence stems from earlier sentences, tho the earliest is gone.
A sentence is not a poem, a poem is.
Yeti is the best imaginative reversal of norm so far today.
A better reversal soothes verbs, plucks nouns from the air, dazzles adjectives in sullen relief, and boys and girls are tired.
Writing is a gasp for forensic sake.
My love is not a poem (said the writer, here, now). My love (continued) is named and this date.
Dates are sentences, as are people.
The Fantastic Four are just about done.
Consider the sentence, while Reed Richards stretches and Sue Storm disappears.
A poem is, itself, a sentence.
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