Just another, loves, that doesn't leave, but a remembering, distant from what us touched 'twas the immediate rest buried among: the rain, the crowd, the loud. Our heartbeat unchanged but if it did, would that be Just another, loves?
Death's end: A veer to begin pain, balloons out like a javelin, from a babes' eye—it ran followed by a scream, red then dry, loud and loud it went as it endured: two-hundred-and-eighty winters, before the first of spring.
Nicking knacks of rumble squirm to battlefield no mountain nor ocean inhabit, if plains or lakes survive through dim corridors such passengers alight, morning till dusk, to scare the thunder that storm such passageway.