How you know I.
And no fool.
But bittersweet life-rains.
No fool to death, but ever stumbling on gain, before once more,
It is lost.
Death is a hand of setting sails to sea. Wartime ships that drums from deeper intents by a King. Indeed,
Only one Kingdom I know.
And it is the mountain of the anointed.
Anointed here,
Once more,
Rearing up, in all forms,
Postulating between turbulence, Rife, innocence, and peace.
Quivering with an old man's brow, and older the body.
Attempting to mold things,
Though I am a seer.
Gravity's are heavy, like a drumbeat, and artillery-
Like the sign of the times never to be the same- entering a moment, knowing forever we will come out of it
Transformed.
Entering it; we have already.
Knowing.
Like simply every providence from heaven.
Cycle is death, and destruction. Change over time, and rebirth, of grasses atop charred bone and wood.
It is nature.
We are simply
Of it.
No comments:
Post a Comment