good morning, all porous

seas of humility crash onto shores as the night meets the sun in the usual way; it is morning. and the skies open up in a gentle cascade of rains all falling, yet drifting away. god knows i’m a relatively cheap pioneer, to be fiending for spoils of the final frontier. i dig what is dug out of dirt and discussed like it’s fact; no, it’s fiction. i can no longer trust that the enemy lies like a head upon pillows; lungs swelling, subsiding, as you sit beneath willows weeping for the destruction of past participles. i heave and i toss you a language, so simple, yet misunderstood; yet thrown back with hate devised to bring you nearer to a fiction you crave or the memory of times which you spent inside caves, turning left, turning right ‘til you were dark and depraved. boy, you’ve only gotten lost; you’ve just still to be saved. yes, and not by a savior. no, christ passed away and he isn’t coming back because it doesn’t work that way. for although a life may remain beyond the end of your days as yourself, you’ve mistaken that yourself is yourself. no, you are a patron of organic decries and you’ve yet to make light of the wolves as you whistle for sheep.

goodness, i ramble.
gracious, i speak.

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