Sometime, somewhere I will break into many moons - an oblique answer to a terrestrial question of a pale river.
The heat is on, because of the fatal mistakes. Violence has pregnancy. Walls stand alone without a roof hauling the suicidal balloons.
Blue berries are becoming scarce. Vision short, we cannot see in the night. Crystals in candlelight become green, images creeping tall under the trees.
Of total failure, the chemistry of love patches up with arithmetic of aristocracy. Spoils the show of neutrality in sky, hurting the gods.
I am stuck with autistic heroes in poor desert of a waking sun. Death on grass will never show the second birth of the pain.
