There was the poets shore, as the wide sands turned with pursuit, ashes of tea tree oil the familiarly concerned, it was a disconnection to us peripheral adults. Confiscated the argument, of needing to find the hour, like names don’t recall the task. Aneurysms the voyeurs correlated to passing traffic, those sails limpid abreast, and exceeding names the task, their only riches.

Were the magazine any word’s of delight, those images theirs not mine. The basket insistently carried to a contemporary, namely your place of mine. Those minding fate, placed a slightest amount grin, to the goth sands, they shaded for the midnight moon, sails rapped the only colour i ever should know.

Obsidian veins laced to the amethyst vase, a gentle disregard for the discarded in time, odd the pronouns return. Discomfort were knowing to recommend continuity, disclosure sliced through the amended slipper, for aggrievance come the gift thoughtful. They met with age, fulfilling the attire, redressing the time i answered those questions you need not ask.

2022 © Adam Blewett