The winding staircase calls back to the pace of space… Spiraling and falling into this thing a bit deeper, even if not knowing the keeper.
A spacial meld of what you know, that I have not a clue about. The grout that holds the form will warm up the intuition of a Tundra on a mission. Though the ideas are held in your mind, the threads I wind in sight and sound have bound you to ground the transmission.
Though there is much swishing back the drink, a web shall link ideas to smink. A fate foretold. A date within which not fully enrolled. They have strolled across the path, yet four out of three people can’t math. A luxurious bath to hold us deep in the warm waters. We grow old and wise and cherish our daughters. The potters may hold the dream away with a team of horses, yet the forces on all sides of the riddle shall evade the lines from Left of the Middle. They know… I cannot show.
The lies and deceit fuse the beat to the treats left along the shoreline. A cleat holding the boat to the note, yet the Coat of Arms shares the alarms of the creature. A matrical feature of time and space to place rhyme and grace into the link of how Alex liked the line about bass. Tracey to place the MC into the weld, yet how am I held?
There is much for her to learn. I also want to know I have a valid concern about how much we burn away each night and day. I don’t wake up well, and while in the Earthly shell, there is so much more to learn and share and tell, without divulging secrets of La Belle Dame sans Merci. I have feared that she would leave me Torn from this Earthly realm, where sometimes dreams grip us at the helm.
Though overwhelmed by how they’ve no way or idea to save.
A fool held in the balance of how and then, and while now in the den, the ten minds find eleven kinds of thought before the hour twelve is brought.
The plan has brought me back to the knot I had thought that they wish for me to have fought. I cannot pinpoint the moment of when, and though the point of the pen reminds me of how I had welded the Id as a kid, the bids made to turn the heart back to spade also finds the spaces wade between the words. Though the stereo birds call out their song, I cannot be held in the throng of what is right, and wrong.
I write not as much tonight as some of the other nights… The rights to hold and pervade the text is also what’s next.
I can, and cannot. I will… I will not. I won’t, I don’t, I can, I shall…. This world of Earth being where we find the heavenly and hedonistic spell. I dwell between the moments of now and forever, seemingly never able to sever from the fact that it is my life that has also lacked.