There lies language and I lie to the words, as they are layered topless like the house starring with mortar. The infinitesimal use of a chide with no name, similar the conversion rate, too muse with adaptation out of play; curtailing living proof, set scene the chamber brought alive, founding the chatter. Sensing our desirable pleads, regression stood him in bade, decay to the house with starry mortar, and alone my standing withdrew from the falling rain, no trace with her in cold colours pale; catching to restate in lore, forefathers are the courage to house, dripping the flood. Pigmentation or names, I could otherwise hearth the vapor, a lustre from the dormant cold wrap a withered relent, sounds to torment what lies insight, without brew or courage to the recovery, them blue blood pigments, and other effortless catch.

2020 Adam Blewett ©