The Proper Hour, Of A World's Sneeze
by @david-hilburn
How is yet, our soul purpose?
Aged reciprocation, a queue of wrath
Since apt, is a war with no host...
Places of passion, set to a music to never add
Odd, the taste
Of vehemence's flower
Set to sweeter haste
Implied ordeals have a certain power...
Mercy, no more...
A mirror of lewd fantasy
Seeing me step forward
Has harbored, my indignity...
Salt, I know you
Quiet, when fingers of the sun
Arrange the day, for a wind to blow
An image saving not, from a seldom, so cunning...
Professed voices
With a moment, to look and see...
A curse so sweet, presence of a choice
That has a hand, for each blindness we be...