/lit/ - Literature

My loving, Die, crammed beneath rotting ties of dreary beams beaming out, the feeling up, and how I stare for what is even there, but mirrors black and bare.

Rescued little likings, of mine I recall, great, now battles ring about, rings around the legs of our Deity, grouping hate and nothing else.

Try to see my way, on higher paths we rest inside retreats, turned out, not to be a home so hard to even bare, barely home, for constant, where are you now, Lady?

Shatter stability, but what remains, I decode her eyes, what I hear I cry, not like before, with loads so light to break me.

Roar of barrels twist my mind and staring helmets call my Sign, but as empty as my response should be, i lay down clicking safety, safety, oh wait, don't stop now for my sake, forsake me now for my ways.

Kinship amid wafting grease and laughing stress aloft our heads, in pain we share our beds, and in vain we take our meds, and in Maine we take our dead, comfortable at now, for grieving lines are etched in ice only to be thawed away.

Inside rolls a heavy Hearse, coins in bulges, any girth, now doubled down, makes ideas rumble in jest off and on and sorry masks just rest aside, heaving in pursuit of libraries carrying selected works toward my goal of free.

A deadly taking, that under She, likes to stalk lovers and gently be the greatest maniac, inside I breed forms yet unseen and hope to claim such as obscene, obstructing me, obscuring my way and parting in pain what my might might see.

Lastly, I've decided, holding out for Death to be, or not, but what I mean to say, or maybe need reevaluate, the saying I say inside my head, to think one's thoughts alone in bed to be the best and ask only for who I think to be.

Love me like the Manatee drives surface red with fleshy tea, in spinning furiosity, hard ahead of healing marks, deep and hotter, in grains of grey, so dark, with crimdaughter.

Timely whining found in place of cheery death and fragrances, telling false, opining wounds in laces, Maribeth, when your leg rinses, spilling pulse, divining rounds of phases into yearly stats.

Gunmetal vocations and gangly variations, minted Seeds, set aside for times to come, bearing fruitful arms of holds and prevents a new unstack.

Time rains down, afting falls in love, too, where Clouds once floated by, my soul now clouded, why, as paindrops pain on down, flatly so, in binds of consideration, matched, for it spares four pairs in locomotion.

I thought I see Things how they are, but, not a year later, and now much has changed, the better part being myself who simply views another section other than what I think of.

Growing longer, until I see above the Trees, I am enlightened, never having taken a single step forward, but suddenly I fall and fall so far I can scarcely believe the world is so different and so changed from my disgrace.

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