In my mind there is a place
Something I still can see
Breakfast on vacation
Accessed in a memory.

In my head was something
made out of clay and hell
but it's still so cold
tempered with love. live lovely bells

Every morning
Every day
We both needed each other
and breakfast
and a way to get back home again

To get home,
for dinner
love
and fights
and lovely heart built stories
made for your and my delight.

I saw all sort of phantoms on the
held of gate
I grew all sorts of angry when that grey ***
ghost had make me hate

Only until after
all the smoke had had to clear
was only when this punk as ghost had flexed
force I had to feel

So I had to flounder
I pickled in a ***
I stuck my **** in tinder
and now Im father THOT

Spilled out of my eyelids were stakes of ice made cold
Like a list of lovely leaflets that have died and I can't hold
Shifted out of heaven were all my battle bait.
All it took was fear was to learn how our soldiers hate.

I used to lick the salty rocks
that slacked upon the stooly trail
a stable of able shelf able built ******* who've been bewitched with
alterart stitches which means mowers caulked with glue and round of

"i don't know, You?!"

I never knew how to clip the nails that I kept on my fingertips.

In love with how the fingers had lived together, in a lonely way.


I sipped in the pool of tears from whens hearts been cryin'
in an escape, in an ache to find the other way

Escape is gray, great

and it's hurts so bad

Like sickled silver grated on a gravel beast released during my deepest pain.

It took so long to realize.

Killed in silver, was a glass goodbye.

I asked Mister Brick Breaker to take some stock off of my shift

Mister Back Breaker said that I was remiss in my dealings and all but how I felt with them

Miss Packet Maker would weave and send out stories that would not make us stories.

She used to send out stories about us, and how our lives were not bad.

Splattered on grounded gravel
was all about lava labor
a little more that flavor savior
the saber that'll build
a little field
of golden grit
lit with lampblack
and litwicked slacked made
lackadaisical magick
whick will have woven tragic
old fashioned words
built in passions
and up on stewards
hoarding all of our
new world copper
and proper human presents.