Let us watch your demise.
One thousand or two thousand syllables to flush from my heart.
The images may also vanish.
Oh
this isn't that new of a thing.
A story to tell.
Be still please.

I am removing your troubles.
Become more still.

I am injecting pleasantries.
Moving from my core.
Into your pores.
A river of warm oil.
And try very hard now to see yourself in these words.
Or the cliches inbetween.

Deep down you pray to a lord.
Falling prey to girls and boys and infant's stillness.

We've all said.

Women grow from your heart and ghosts form in their shadows.

The heat in the wood.
The nourishing crumbs.

A transition.

A stolen set of locks.
Binding the kingdom to Heaven.

It could be so still.

We are a few characters short.

Speaking, telling no stories.