by Andrew M. Harbach03 Jun 2015
But of your accord, your clandestined autonomy: as my magistrate; you have, by benediction, a passion in claiming who we are to become.
Your nature has you stay. By choice and by lovely rain. No regulation bears you owing any kiss. Though by will you brush yourself beside me.
No forrest ever spoke the language of trees, though plenty are the roots. And as I follow further lost in wayward wood, I turn to path my own chosen steps. Narrow fielded, plain sighted, your perfect frame, by all Holy happenstance, aims with me a common trail. One to the merging of lakes, Smiled upon by the world where we walk.
Dreams are nothing but irrespectable confines. Confines and contrails. All we awake to are thoughts we have tongue taled, such that all I really NEED is to print this picture on the facade of realities finest conventions.