The paint had disappeared before and like before, my notice to them, to have my gradient strokes reappear the least amount intuitive of desolation. Those old numbers remembering, had grown trivial alongside the cloak of deficient beauty, the caressing slowing of age, or the placement of the numbers trivial, by displacement and her reappearing confidant, in dreams return from his assessing vitality.

They are not unearthly by substance, where the lain breath toils within a desolate lair; they await from the thirst in quell, streaming laborious with latch to render the reel of night’s in pray, cooling waters brisk to the filtering sunlight of morning.

1927 those making with fuel and automatic congestion bring in the sounding patter, reflective soulful lads of news and of page, we stood the stream of crates intersection, zeroed fighting, tailgate gunners, or the lads making help with confusion.

The fulsome evening bear of the deep, resisting hollow, our driven nine fragrant, sharp relentless store, to trickle the stream of torrent wish, another placement to her drying lamenting heart.

2020 Adam Blewett ©