Looking into the *** of literature
Eratosthenes, and getting some midnight wrong
Broken poems, killjoy, I'm in a mellow dram with my bearhugs
In the chugging lurid frescoes of the mind of a gregarious soul with lion's eyes and a wolf's soul, the warmth lit the Savannah
Seems like cold ice, thawed in the nasty weather, left with positivity
Emerson's rude bridge, on the point, on the road, *** or a livid ultimate cunning guy being the ******, kicking the dirt with the incomplete poetic lines, where souls find lost dreams on the end of passion steps, lost Conrad
Do they murmur as a poem which is one, unbeing and being
The poem reminds of a haiku
She once told you
Tea was taken black
Sweet and right, is white on the top
A soul in the heart of darkness find an accident in the heart of weakness of others, my lungs are paper trite on the road around this town
Bless the soul, it knows peace after we're long gone on the dry dirt, kicking up the darkness in dreaming of you
Fear in a handful of stardust in an ashen raging madman
If you could those poets in that lost poem

If you could read between the lines and keep the metaphors alive
Dying and slipping, sliding away away
Concordant lives of the passion of the Christmas, he lives with his Hagrid-like father
Strolling the empty nights, with the Christ in the amazing hodger,  roger in the soul love, and they share the same books
That's why they share different characters, and lines