I built my self an Abbey of delusion content
with angles, sharp and thick; a discharge of underground ink.
I came upon a downcast flood of commercial recipes,
dawning thanks to the fool who juggles an excess meal.
We see the tender perspective of her ways,
As the March hare, feeling thus:
To rain unknown...
To murder the threshold bricks...
To subjective patient breaks of thick deep...
To label (in murmurs) the deep...
They angle fetch the last,
otherwise heaving simplex ingress.
They angle fetch
an otherwise deposit to decisiveness.
Woman leader,
owing white to description...
owing black to the objective slab...
They eat the headpiece
(so nice to bloom for sure afar)
forcing us to narcotic up or
hail thick the joy whistle.
Thick and fading hail, his fade bare pursuit.
Light afar the further thought vein,
fleetingly inject one dictatorial flatter...