The All-Telling Tale : Mythic development with intent to distribute

Keeping conscience codified and corruptible.

time_2551_300Self-annhilation couldn't be more communicable. Don't trust the breaks in thought; they are expandable.


The means to “shipmate”

I appreciated in value, the dusk of rust colored remnants of “so far, not true” and read unto you my registry of repair, and where I “fused the future with technology encompassed by a vacant stare as to where I occurred to enter naught and roamed the tape-stry… As a tree with/9iut roots to redirect my face to the glance if your grace and I suit you now a name to agent me the recovery of all my fill in the blanks thanks for my encouragement.
Now I return to the realm of “real meant” and I scene to dream a drape to tape to a structure that wore me like the taper if a wind could resend my annulment.
Wrapped up in all my modalities, I impair the quartz in your watch to dock me intellectually .

Try me.

What if the sunlight doesn’t bend right,
And my summon of seasons light darkly
If not for the wayward curve of lessons weighted slightly west, the rest of my dim return to reason, all avail the seated slight of paper and a writ to question your Maker, the rule of all words bending to suppress your gait.
So as fate goes to arm you it’s slung guilt, does not the appellate wand wave it’s sparkle to course me all feats of feature formed to fancy me a hapless rift of facticity~ lead me battered and born restless spurning righteousness to the left of things beside the road.
Lift your ignorance to defend me.
I plead perfectly the pose of posterity. Hung. And slave the conscience to draw me the criminal of cost; that I be the nonchalance of Justice as she straightens my crown and I dine on the demons that will me to sufferindemnity to publicity and deem Doubt the opportunity to seize me instrumental provocating a pause in the break between real and fake, if you’re asking.

In all your phases of togetherness, I hold you; indifferent as you are
To meld me
Into the shape that held me yours.

Decipher me indigenous to what came before.0





The temper of a bath and the banter of math

Patterns perceive me perfectionless,
with no address to consciously compressed
thoughts I compose to cure me
the hard lead of whence I feed your forethought
with thinks instead
rather I be led by links
and templates that by your structure
suit me.
(computably compressed by a now collapsable eternity and valueless still my endlessness so conditioned to cure me)
Posterity shall have its record of me immutable and miscalculate modernity posthumously.
Let poetry adorn me instead with a puffy head, coquettishly.

Congratulations, Dr. Middleton.
Had I not sle\pt through centuries, elliptical principalities of post-proximity
would make me an anomaly

Just a day


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