There are too many wayward souls within a soul of the eclectic nations stagnation

Plain way to the seaside of algae growth in your ears because nobody is hearing the messages that have been spoken

Breaking glass in the windows that seem shatterproof but the pain is spiraling and the pain is small and the pain is splatterproof

Dainty places with the work run smudges on floors where plates once lay shattered

Broken brain strain stained the glass top ceiling with capsulated thought dripping to individual vessels

Too long is The pier where fishermen and women cast lots for straws burning in the turnstiles Of Paris or the other places of pleasure

pleasure, where forests burn in fires thinking highly & well done

spun the yard of life no crosses no sinewy impressions laying there
In the L.A. barren land

born are they on desert notes in bear lakes on the deserted
beds without linen

visceral dreams seen high in the clouds stitched with the threads of amusement when seemingly the paths never end , but then bend , Split , and meander around and in the ditch

some tunnels bring light in pitch when the switches have all been turned off and stop lights are still blinking to brain waves still on green in the screen still illuminated

😳👊🏿👹👊🏽😈🤖👿🤖😈👊🏻👺🔥🌫🤐🔥👺👊🏻😈🤖👿🤖😈👊🏽👹👊🏿😳

river of passion