His defining brush brings grief to our veracity, the accumulative repertoire being made poignant of derision, our epitaph belonging to the hidden world, those of word, to page in a thought, one December Sunset. The revolution were his income, so i spy, he loved to have her with my thoughts, those angels they shall long to where I reside. To the lasting retreat possible, you reach to retouch them brightly ilk, sharpen what evoked to him our disorder, fortune were her palace revoked, the entity for love, shaping those familiar about him. Remarks do they remake a question out of necessity, or question the beehive rhetorical, those words belonging deeply bound to our lack of orbs redress, to relate nor image the canvas? At least we have him with correct salvage to record them words fleeting out, a theatre, reproduction booked, to a cameo curtails him well beyond.

2021 Adam Blewett ©