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Windows of a loving hope that can not be as elastic as the dream would permit but a false belief in theory that is none
2016-09-14 14:40:52 by shittingpie
It is plain and I see now I can not see past the gates that lye on edges of Simon as he moves when sunlight shouts and that old dog I owned when I was three years of age because the water I drank from that fountain made me intoxicated while dining on that lemongrass acre in the paddock in the West but do not smell that which has not manifest into our reality because back when Simon was king the entire village could rely on someone especially in dire times it sneezes every fortnight by gloating in ecstacy we would pray to our father in hope a fraction of my dream could become reality while holding hands on the banks of a sandy patch of land brought forth from realms unseen because if I know anything at all it's the fact that I have precise knowledge over the fact at hand that I actually know something and together joined at the hip I can break the scaffold to unhand the prince from that grip that cold uninspiring talent you hold on to so tightly while the beckon of sea mammals becomes apparent could it really be possible that all this time a cacophony was swelling in the midst of yesterdays bread because if you ever have had the chance to bear witness to the gates I'll be under the sign waving my hand at you in a non confrontational manner the things that can be seen are now no longer within the confines of the brief experience held close to my body for it is something and something it shall always be until the watching cradle can bellow a name for me to call in the storm of this winter haven A body I made and a scent is error when you got off the boat did you see him? because I have been told by the northern cityfolk that a cloud of foreign belief has stricken you in the throat but where O my companion has the yew tree fallen and where shall my winding dynasty be laid upon a frightful society that craves the bottom of an iridescent delicacy from realms only believed to exist in a childs story how it happens is not to my awareness but I think Im starting to develop the insight needed to finally comprehend the symbology behind my decrepit sense of having the sensation of living inside a home of naught orange beams that would cascade down the walls when I am using the corners of a building unused but also not forgotten I would reach out my hands to you and encourage you to take hold so that something can be nothing as it was again Is that you Grandma?