Tis Better To Be Abused Than To Know'T a Little
For years and months I was a preecher.
And your paleness was nothing but a helpless virtue to my speech in whole.
And with regular meetings of sliding glanses and peers up awake,
Had the superior overthrow of once an inheritance,
to make a last stand against you.
A grand inheritance to any man.
Strangeness seems to defy their
Wordplay of love on them.
it plagues the whole
While it's better to be abused than to know a little.
I lay there
Sleeping on a listless hope
That binds all of a day into one
Image.
For years and months I fell a flowing blackthorn.
Suckled on my leaking intents.
It grew along my home and it's windows.
Only your acknowledgement has enough power To open me.
And it's at this shroud,
the peek of my oblivion where a thought was dedicated
To an image I saw today again.
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