I thought I rested my arms on the pinnacles of the prudence of impenetrable shadows falling off to clove my heart of sour, The circumspection of the inner aspect of missing circumstances, like a wand in the hand: Time didn’t do well, she cheated and broke her pact, she owes me big time and I mean it the second hand, I grovel at dusks revival like as though I’m some Caribbean music to the ears of the Mississippi. The same emotion is now an emulsion on the walls of my heart, spinning her rollers on my life like a routine to the sun who I scorch under. It does have its day well not days my rain dawns on me.
What has been written is far above my head beyond alphabets description, like tonight’s songbird that has flu; My symphonies tease me in colors so clammy. Sweet talks of conferences confusing my countenance from within her conspecific conspectus, I’m like a story in the hands of an artist and the lips of an storyteller,
Table turns and evenings see it true, a nature in its favor, like the pinnacles of three letters J O Y, missing from the misfit of James Joyce, It had a different auto dynamic definition to its presentation. I’m super lost in the orbit of losing and as the kerbs to redemption am lost and the lights burn, I find my way in true divinity. In between the drops of dews and the ash of despair, I’ll verse the strength the word has modeled me into, a module in imperfection like skies under the tree of pretense
Count its figures backwards and the arithmetic will alter the present, past and future to a cognizance of desperate failure, like the word people without s, Longitude and not going long. And even though the words cannot construct the process for this insignia the constraints define the stream from which it flows and the air from which it blows. It does taste good as though its food.
21 10 2012


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