The depth of treasure is to know familiar on the mountains of Time,
in Ages the breast of the Armor that staff of Men gave mention to the rain of storms that deluge,
the master of recording is to navigate the scrolls of whom the shoulder did not speak,
to say to vocal pattern in older Times one must cater to the language.
A bell of the ring is that vernal strain to whom the horse did carry,
as the saddle may fit it is the girth that gave question,
an inch to the buckle.
Making such a grand stock as in the herd of cattle or the wool of sheep?,
what woven tangle did not know of the rain?,
the Twine of Wares.
Stride to a must and the endeavor will ache,
the strain will be the mud's,
as the water will color rust.
Strip the marrow and the bone still will break,
it is the thread of small that needle and staggering awl that saves more than a stitch upon the cloth,
set dinner to a table with only the Oak and the Redwood will desire a chair,
is it the Birch that sway?
On beyond the stagger the life is with the wheat to compass more than a foot to a shoulder to bare,
the sweet 'morrow after light in depth of stead at the Fireplace speaks,
a day to life in the suns light is as a gasp may alter the moon in its own stead,
such magnified makes each part to every person stand a stride and not a stretch,
be tall with bleating as the wool is of a sweater worn to engage the flames,
in alter the couch will only deliver a ladder to touch the ream of chapter in soot,
stand lather and the watering of one's own pitcher will thirst no more than the faucet of loved.
Bank only your Record and the words will seep into the deed,
ripen that and the woolen method will find a scratch,
in that the muster kneads to etch upon the brain a hops,
drink not the rum that drunken sump of alcohol on the rubbing,
make method operation of a level playing field,
in the Plow find the said and harness not your pride but giveth your harvest.
Should that sorrow grief upon the pen in the scroll of chaos,
it will find the deepening of ink to the taste of skin as the tattoo will be your tongue,
in gratitude find the good and ache the state of day that makes this day a bright star on an evening,
grief not the thigh of fire to engage the liver of compulsion,
grant the deed with no wax as sealed to scrolling the wording as a miser in gold,
richness comes as the water runs!!
Feeling the tractor of what is a Disc in the sky of lighted,
than ask what is the ceiling that buries the language of expression,
with each word to tangle it is the wheel that gift of prose that burns,
to asking and not gifting what is the Morse code for those that have no lit fire to warmth of hand,
in sorrow there is bread of butter and the honey is bee,
far from frost the ice does not glacier behind the lake.
A gratitude coming from the breeze,
fell in the trough of frozen humanity the declaration of a constitution clattering,
wise portion touching the oats that made meal,
dinner is the grace of Thursday?,
why in that November said is man on the napkin,
I clarify only my memory of pain,
the agony is defeated.
This year of two-thousand eighteen I stride,
the beaten and the dead I respect and honor your life with more than a stead,
from the Pilgrim to the Traveler,
it is the Ships that made the ocean thirst,
for that may the rivers melt and may the valley's provide vision.
Should I pour upon the pastel the painting as the draw is only color in a move to speak,
is the paint a brush to the brow off my farther smoke,
did the fire find a flap to gasping air frosted by the language of the Universe,
is only the added mathematics in an associate of degrees.
Free is the zero on a scout of numbering suds,
yet sand,
the sand to be counted as the freckles that lay gentle,
there in the open range the buffalo once ran in flow,
as the river now runs.
What where is the next tunnel of darker than a blinking smile,
does only the sun mark a beam,
is not the hand in friendly shake the clatter of more than a job,
should the moon not shine does the sun.
Grief is over the shores and the suds do ocean in sands of darker,
yet upon this day,
a day of date,
a smile rose,
no thorn gave pinch to denial,
the crow flew and the gulls did sing their noisy smudge.
Piers of Ships
in alter the couch will only deliver a ladder to touch the ream of chapter in soot,
stand lather and the watering of one's own pitcher will thirst no more than the faucet of loved.
Bank only your Record and the words will seep into the deed,
ripen that and the woolen method will find a scratch,
in that the muster kneads to etch upon the brain a hops,
drink not the rum that drunken sump of alcohol on the rubbing,
make method operation of a level playing field,
in the Plow find the said and harness not your pride but giveth your harvest.
Should that sorrow grief upon the pen in the scroll of chaos,
it will find the deepening of ink to the taste of skin as the tattoo will be your tongue,
in gratitude find the good and ache the state of day that makes this day a bright star on an evening,
grief not the thigh of fire to engage the liver of compulsion,
grant the deed with no wax as sealed to scrolling the wording as a miser in gold,
richness comes as the water runs!!
Feeling the tractor of what is a Disc in the sky of lighted,
than ask what is the ceiling that buries the language of expression,
with each word to tangle it is the wheel that gift of prose that burns,
to asking and not gifting what is the Morse code for those that have no lit fire to warmth of hand,
in sorrow there is bread of butter and the honey is bee,
far from frost the ice does not glacier behind the lake.
A gratitude coming from the breeze,
fell in the trough of frozen humanity the declaration of a constitution clattering,
wise portion touching the oats that made meal,
dinner is the grace of Thursday?,
why in that November said is man on the napkin,
I clarify only my memory of pain,
the agony is defeated.
This year of two-thousand eighteen I stride,
the beaten and the dead I respect and honor your life with more than a stead,
from the Pilgrim to the Traveler,
it is the Ships that made the ocean thirst,
for that may the rivers melt and may the valley's provide vision.
Should I pour upon the pastel the painting as the draw is only color in a move to speak,
is the paint a brush to the brow off my farther smoke,
did the fire find a flap to gasping air frosted by the language of the Universe,
is only the added mathematics in an associate of degrees.
Free is the zero on a scout of numbering suds,
yet sand,
the sand to be counted as the freckles that lay gentle,
there in the open range the buffalo once ran in flow,
as the river now runs.
What where is the next tunnel of darker than a blinking smile,
does only the sun mark a beam,
is not the hand in friendly shake the clatter of more than a job,
should the moon not shine does the sun.
Grief is over the shores and the suds do ocean in sands of darker,
yet upon this day,
a day of date,
a smile rose,
no thorn gave pinch to denial,
the crow flew and the gulls did sing their noisy smudge.
Piers of Ships
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