Saving style, as if I know the truth, as if, for what end is there any justice. The rabbit is not for me, in certain planes rough, a circle of blood, a crossing for zeal. In my bed I lay with problem, hand on head feels ok, the serious issue is planning, some kind of play on lips. Broken down and up is soldier, a fist for liking, victims enumerate slowly, the kindness is time and flow.
So sister becomes mother, no use in phoning for likeness. The trouble is born again, a system where help is disregarded. The owning is simple like a coin, the banks will always laugh, corrupting is easy with signatures, send it off downstream to come up. I pray sometimes for something, while easing off the steeple, the people love a good dog, like hunting some gold.
I need to break away from here. A licking wound I fear, a stetson was my head once, a boxing glove my mothers money, knocked down again for dope, the dope was me. So rope was invented not for heads, heaps of death came, the tree no longer beauty, the necks swallowed. A gardener was sought for prison, escaped was a hand of grass, to ease the ache of reminder, that the gates were closed.