Beneath the arc of the rounded rainbow ley Whistled the lark as the arrow lost it's way The Blue lightless perfect-colored obfuscaire Still supine, I crossed the sandy veil Falling forever through each measure; All moral minds sentinel Falling to Hell Breathe together, Farewell.
The circle we drew as we moved but tried to look down was wiped away with the sound of the morning rooster's crow... His tail was tied to a hammer and he dragged it to the horizon
In the hallway outside my bedroom door, I heard the old dead sleigh gliding to it's restful drones, purposely knocking the pictures off their nails. With a vacancy ogling my sober inhalation, our curator's rocking to the rhythm of the rain on her carved hair here in this room, with the inverted torches at it's barrier, where materia vibrated out. It's vibration left a plume climbing it's way up a blue-blessed curl, which was girdled by aurora of obliging black morel. Then, I called and cried out while I minded the bell that dangled crazily closet edge of the basin of the rain which fell. (It fell in the shape of a bifurcated ammonite shell).
A beacon as blue as a bowerbird's eye in the morn, A poem written in threes over four, My oeuvre based on the coy and forlorn, Another boy's parallel night in the harrow, And the quiet decline of my questionable rhythm. Disinterested forever in upwards motion, I hung out by the white chalk letters.
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Copy to Clipboard: Beneath the arc of the rounded rainbow ley Whistled the lark as the arrow lost it's way The Blue lightless perfect-colored obfuscaire Still supine, I crossed the sandy veil Falling forever through each measure; All moral minds sentinel Falling to Hell Breathe together, Farewell.
The circle we drew as we moved but tried to look down was wiped away with the sound of the morning rooster's crow... His tail was tied to a hammer and he dragged it to the horizon
In the hallway outside my bedroom door, I heard the old dead sleigh gliding to it's restful drones, purposely knocking the pictures off their nails. With a vacancy ogling my sober inhalation, our curator's rocking to the rhythm of the rain on her carved hair here in this room, with the inverted torches at it's barrier, where materia vibrated out. It's vibration left a plume climbing it's way up a blue-blessed curl, which was girdled by aurora of obliging black morel. Then, I called and cried out while I minded the bell that dangled crazily closet edge of the basin of the rain which fell. (It fell in the shape of a bifurcated ammonite shell).
A beacon as blue as a bowerbird's eye in the morn, A poem written in threes over four, My oeuvre based on the coy and forlorn, Another boy's parallel night in the harrow, And the quiet decline of my questionable rhythm. Disinterested forever in upwards motion, I hung out by the white chalk letters.
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