Ward of the muse non existent in the skin that you brush so intelligently
The hair that tangles around between your fingers is proof that the world is aloof
to your heartache, or may be not and if not then yes, someone could ex-sist and persist
in this reality of Beethoven's Adagio where the Ideal is what is Ideato what is seen right
in front of your eyes and behind their inversion
I am a patient to myself, myself forwarding off the excess added dictions to the non-sense that
surround bee leafs.
Sush pension of belief and leap like a frog into cake, no faith.
When did she stop being a word? When did she concluded on her conditions?
For if there were conditions she would not be, here in this line you see.
Hear this here. The hair falls, withdraws from a head that continuously finds new roots to replace her...
Loanliness, I would like to neologize and eulogise the borrowings that I have returned.
Nothing or warden is interest-free.
I am certain though that I can be the rhyme that survives in the palaces of within caresses
of my own very fairy scary daring sea.
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