Those in allotment to the whom of them say you are blue, the deep-hurt-locker of unfathomable hyperbole, shut beneath the galaxy of salty tears. Uninterrupted i wise in lumber throughout the unforeseen, those forsaken morsels of judgement, pillars of broken rain, fell of the fountain to youth, my bleeding noise, a java red. The bagatelle in my booking thought, a realm of stars.

2019 Adam Blewett ©