Something in 'me' about that song, a theatre of details, not some profound justice of meaning, but a sea hearing out to its song. I am not sure, not sure I am sure, not, a sure I, not a song , not am I, sure not song.
Then why bother to speak with anything but muffles in your mouth?
The tale of detail and the ramble of rugged roofs gabled over your path and your daft death arriving soon
between the orchards and shares of your stork
some thinglike the great poet of the shields and temporary waves
even I is the bit that crumbled between the waves
hunger our waif
not drunk like the cold nights then
when then was a rouge fixed over the temporary bases of your self
they want me to speak , I will not speak, nothing 'will be' clarified,
except the anonymous masked song
what will you do with that O Thomas doubting
_____________________ a package by CollaGe RIps
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Comment has derided the night. A cumbersome waif waits her tune. Chune it is .
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Rigamarole region .
Hover the hour spaoon.
