A prophetic voice gets to speak and even say how bushes are imagined. Chained quaintly to so pacific an idea, and from heaven sent as designated. Talking, flaming, simmering in old ways to follow. Now just little tree greening, growing, with vigour or no. And how they grow: leafy, petulant, frenzied as undergrowth or overspread. The shortnight of autumn signals a change, the mask comes off. The bush of voice speaks freely, the way of day as bushes lose their leaves. Rooted in tense earth with effective fund, and words sorted. People minor and low key declare bushes with anything words know, yet small interstices mark lacunae. Dreams pay out, motets, motors, or maintenance, stridency to name a few. And if clouds lift above Gaza where the time, so the bush in the hands of a burning voice, and the further light mulct from pharisees.
Remain alert as you hear the reading of the burning, Pharaohs enjoy a cover story while others float downstream. The intended land recruits the vice gripe as naturally as flood, as gentle as decree. Deserts exist as floor models dedicated to dedication in the least degree, much easier to find than believe. The human remains just dirt with much emphasis on no such thing. A bush will survive, uncrowded by virtue. Humans sort their meaning, one riposte at a time. It boils done to how one imagines gone. The last voice will seem so timely when its own time.
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