Off, The Bow; Strained. No arrows, there never were.
Run, evil; run. Too late now to get tired.
Your light, burning hot, waiting for tomorrow.
Darkening, smouldering,
brought back to mind
In another time. In confidence; ... self-pity.
Frankly, I'm expecting a lot from in a minute. A tender look at least.
Investigation fouled the last. Be wary, wanted, a conqueror;
for ugliness
So what do we find, why don't you learn.
Nymphs of the wood, with their urban disease of suggestion!!...
Limping up to the fountainhead, walking on, out-of-this-world,
maybe you didn't know about the ground water.
Frankly, I must have expected too much.
Pictures of us or just you, me
Advertising circles, along your ways in us. A helping reference?
Cafff. Self-conceit saves the damager. In order that, in order that
the blankness of this world's face may be born into the answers.
Frankly, I'm expecting great pasts. Go on
be scared, that's allright.
Smother truth in a lie, blame someone else,
blame innocence,
and everyone will sleep real-tight;
Only after the hanging, that is, but before the hangman of awareness.
Frankly, I'm execting too much.
Sheet music probably won't cure
incurability. Still, there are other improbabilities, this for one.
