In a losing
there is not much architectural
panaché.
It’s a
dislinear philanthropy.
The sort of desolate impala predator in recycled NatGeo covers;
The last time I saw my grandma, she was in a lucid litter; her bed a dwarven vault umbrella.
I was yet to understand blood.
When she passed, she left without much weeping. My father-
A people’s baboon- sailed in still ebbing.
In those feralities, there's a lack of certain
strategy, blasphemous is the antelope's unpinnable traversing,
all but for
the mountain beast
who still lurks in the weeds. Crimson then often filled those pages.
There were a lot of funerals in mere naming; curtsies of fathers
of fathers of classmates.
I didn't know them much more than in movies, as described
then to me,
they missed a certain mark(frequently in the appetizers.)
In splatter and sploosh, in spilling and splash maroon- the droplets - danced in
my drowsed peripheral; imagine the photographer, it feels, that in every such photo, it is the same one.
So when you were lowered, I did as those films, and wore black-tie cotton and hugged,
and hugged,
and I wrote a poem, that I should think, you would hate, and implored that you heard the rummage
in the sighs of the snow and the cracklings, and that you read the other poem and scoffed less. Only now have you begun
to leave and it's most hideous, my friend, that you do so,
so spectacularly underwhelmingly.
And it is the grey that is left, which I find most tasteless; ghasting in recurrence that ends in a
lump, upon which the camera lingers on, for it is
feebly
glass.