Monument they have, reduced ever so more, to a thing called out, braking loud. Venus I had longed the execution of going back, to care for the melancholy stitch in time, curbing a tillage within throes of imported currency, should I settle the best laid plans.

Those gum trees, salubriously swell with resting water, bathing floods of salinity. Rest those loving blue eyes, did you not receive well, my blurry heart. It was a watery lug of our way, where the swollen charcoal to fulsome, caught a damsels ashen lock.

Moments were handling regressive force, his beat along the still and quite, resolve to saving indifference, your words of mine. Practicing in melancholy, I should replay in harassment my swollen mind. Taught you to know how it proliferate, cause and no effect.

Venus soars a swollen armour, continuing wheels, swims bloods throes a thought her reappearing anger. Thoroughly graced in habitual torn sails, my mend your friend, any foe a yelp, lifting superstition unto harms laden skies.

2019.©Adam Blewett. Monument.