Privilege, has come of rage?
A succor, found bedlam...
Came and went, like an unified nation
Giving the truth, a bit of beauty's wisdom...

Guises in love, with a realm...
Of valor, the poise and waiting of simplicity
In the bells of the sky, a hunger, a health
Waiting on harmony's wish, a stir of implicitly...?

Harshness in a hash of destiny...
Set to reliant music, the toll of our secrets
Impugned totals, of decency come for a star's infinity...
Care is such; much of a timid could, asking about universal limits?

A light for synchronicity...
We wager is a scattered hope, the times to defeat devoidance
With the eyes, the purpose in love with a wakeful sleep...
Is reach in its fault, or its drama of poise that has avid chance?

Sweat of burden, instinct to liberate a hallowed shadow...?
In the decisions of ruling vice, with the grace of knowing meant
The voice of a proper patience, the tooth of remorse with ought's  how...
How is sincerity to avoid a clash, within the sphere of time and its letter?

Passion
In the stead we claim, is a reason to add the hill of pomposity
Quite an other; in the rage of seemliness was our only hope, integrity?
Of a quieter smile, in the name of entertaining a rational of reality?

Do we belong here, when the mind of antiquity was a revelation?
Like anarchy in succor's flames, a dragon of conscience
Has come of age, at whether liberty can be an intuition...
The power if not the privilege, of world's charm to imbue presence...

Angel's dancing on a pin...
Earthen stares, intellect forth a whisper of worth, no man
Without his eventual lip, is alone the works of redemption
In its way, is so, is go with a devoted **** of the fruit of the sun?

I don't know what you were doing,
But you look like a dog
That just stole the roast
From right off the table!
Actually, I know it,
I'm just giving it a better face.

In that mercy, is it grace?
Is it blessing? Are you saved?

Anchors like weights,
Writs from writers acting
Behind the curtains.
I fear they don't even know it's a play,
But they're aware there's stakes.
Whatever press representative
That today flirt nationally
Are riddled with stains.
Very few apart from the alternative,
Though they have well suffered
By those who are dependents.

Who is guilty? Who is judging?

Something different:

a story of a search what --


crime was committed.

my wife watches tik tok in bed
sounding like she is trying
to tune in a radio to someone's life
so many voices fading in and out
or maybe a spirit box with a message
from the other side

I'm with Johannes Gutenberg
some 570 years behind
the smell of the print as much
an enjoyment as the words inside
the book I am reading
about his life

we lie
a respectable distance between us
centuries apart