When in say isolation redefine our pages, sequel one and at one my handling of this matter, in a discussion, caught to the most applaudable science, only my arrival would provide in part to this great chasm of reload. I told September it would become funny, exchanging my pocket for our informal entry, a show of carousel, my topping of honey, supplied with the coding of entry; theatre twelve.

The pending time casting to the phase of promise, to the longing hope of honey, my cheat of stride. Invocating twisting limbs to our bereft hush, the spy of nocturnal eyes. A casting return of September’s smile, her crowding of redolent sway, held my appearance to a leading cast, the vagrant loft: pine or would be steel.

Order in the house, fell to null in fashionable style, prose and illuminating sighs, of supple attention, September met my alone, as to gift with kiss, the exposing night came, to find our steely loft, by the moon’s vale, my wistful honey redefining, you be not their love, you love me and I do not care, hold me and I will be your sequel.

2019 Adam Blewett ©