Unusual and Useless, Childish.

Burning embers. The grey gray grey coulours colors. The gray swirles that ascend towards greatness or aspirations of color. Nothing. While they ascend, they dampin these synapses and blood flows like ink and if it jogs out there is more. The cold sharpens my imput and leaves this falling bursh and dust and ash to remind hero's of OUR origin. Rimbaud is my mother. She is lost biologically and symbolically and I will not find her. HER origin is substantial.
Do you hear these squeaks? Combustions release. A revolution. A clogged lung, it's greyness is symbolic. My family is so slow. I don't mind. No targeted stigmatism can focus this. It dims and swings like wheat. That fragrance ignites my violent colours. Violet equalizes this. My fulcrum is she who's lashes agree quickly, whisper each other into compromises.
The red lights groan and forge through. Push I say push! and you will come to grip with it's refuge. A displace garden (unweeded of course) Cold cracks awaken you and remind us of what he...what we said. Subtract the "I" and it is sad and in that, a moment of clarity. Yes, I say. I can see.


(He tries, but he is blind, for I have sworn. I can not see. What a blessing.)