day one and your sweet lullaby is hanging in the air;
a melodic voice of strings that symphonise even lovers of despair
day two and a slight shard of you glows and gives us below hope,
and read a story of passion - to tick the time that always grows.
day three and all our fingers at all could not wait,
and tap ever so lightly on the walls until cracks fall to slates.
day four and we convince ourselves we're almost halfway there,
the rising sun has no matter but the calender hanging on tapes.
day five, we're halfway, and I crook half a smile-
a smile that knows of all the shivers not further than a mile
day 6 and we count our toes in focus of our minds
that swirl to all the thoughts that overlap yet fill our hearts.
day 7 and it almost seems that we're a second away,
we hurriedly read the lines of the chapter to flip to the next page.
day 8 and all clocks stop, but why doesn't the world?
*because the day must go on
and your voice that i long for,
is no more a sorrow bird.

Kriekgeguard: Sö tall meh how ya doeth wit despair,
and all fir of flams flewing and chewing yir up,
that the hole time yir piercenality waz,
so streing to solve it, but yir did it,
in wreighting of odders wreighting yirself down,
for yirs and yirs and yirs, the hole time
and wie all wanted tingz easey,
sö as yi sayeth, you maketh things hart,
möre difficult for understanding,
how to deal cards with comeflict
as it is with the absolutelysurd world?
Crosstianity, come thinkets, is nothing 'ese aftir all.
So cometh rill empairic, roll yir thongue.
Tall true the true tailing.

Sore: Tired Ae got.
But righting is noting,
it is a smull bud of rose,
and roses out of noting,
Ignore how day and day only tell you:
"You are a great prose stylist, you know the craft, I don't"
For a fukd, Ae might be called a prose cyclist,
but it is not me, it is the kisses muse,
you never forget it for a fukd,
first you note in, then you synthesize, symphonise, syncrosise.
It is all just music.