The great pretender of feasts, recited in those flamboyant words of rest: a cobblers path, the rounding pledge in sated dislike, fell the operatic chamber; plateaued to disdained a shallow, rewinding to the damsel in distress: a occupation left to the crumbling day light, a plight he could hear: a painting of three hundred and fifty nine. Resigned to a pixel, Archimedes pier, faint in bereft cycle, bridged him in return: coursing the cloud of nine, fixation a translation for an unguarded moment. Tuesday’s moon shadow to follow cold on pitch of lake, a stroke to midnight, if I am to swim, like Ox blood catching in her golden mile, to times the price, to pay, a lament.

2019 Adam Blewett copyright