Going Faster Miles an Hour
The picture of clouds wraps over a town full of sentences. Someone
explains the meaning of slightly peering, ropes tying close to heaven, bells
settling in topics for days on end. Trees reach a human level of gasping,
sensitive to words that have been used. Hours later, someone tries expanse. It
filtered thru targets and method for day long confabs. We needed more human
tanks.
Work crews divide zero for the nth time, which struck a postulate for
all to hear. The squeaks of civilization cannot improve dialogue between verb
(doing) and noun (thing). It's
a late night, fox crosses road for fortune.
A talking telephone pole stands for eloquence. Chechnya wants
to be a verb. And while we sing anthems, a dark tone poem writes a “text
message”. Something you can “get”.
Crisis is a patch of sand on a formerly remarkable situation. We have
tractors to tell us the favour that expanse seeks. Obama is the President of
Mayor. This causes all the jaunting modern lovers on the deck of sprinting to
complain. Lecture the infinite, peopled beings, while you still have time.
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