Something talented and refined, penned in genius not simply rhymed.  Limited resource not well defined most of my acting is pantomimed. Regale us with linguistic intent in-depth content that makes our hearts lament. Two sticks rubbing is not a fire nor my wisdom something to inspire. You know of Chaucer, Shakespeare and Jonathon Light Tremain it’s confounding that you cannot recreate their spark again. Perhaps your passion is worthy of this ilk but burlap sacks shall never be smooth as silk. They may still carry the gaggle of your geese but as to magic this thinking inevitably shall miserably cease. A recompense of Dogma’s Log with portage hithe and a harry dog.

To death’s door we run but never cross foundation’s passed or transom’s loss. Forsooth the rage of sleep unawaken eternity’s bed to which we’re taken. As men believe do they relieve the necessity and piety with which beloved grieve. For perish not shall we say loudly and walk aloft not quite so proudly. For Death destroyed and so the cage pins removed on curtained stage. From soul to saint from man to mystery flourishing Brothers among the Sistery. To Sovereign’s phrase my pencil’s taught to leave what we bought not what we brought. And Soul become a wrinkled time to be lost in consonants of sleepless rhyme having been forgotten by both space and time, but to God’s eye’s and ear’s be caught in heaven’s poem of which we’re wrought.

Sing of praise of fearless life with burden’s few and absent strife. To dawns so perfect that skies not yet made shall see them dance with entries paid. All clad in moss of rocks sourly tossed but land shiny side to skies aloft. As dream depicts you in the mind the colors of a wealthy mind. All raised in green and lean as whit to hollow out and laugh a bit. To stream in flurry of snow’s white crown with blues so deep they turn to brown. An auburn night a starless knit do cherish tears we wept unfit. To place of honor without the stance of bolstered pride in arrogance. A gift to many love and life to Heaven’s Groom we’re made to wife. To infinity’s blossom to what unfold never wearied and lesser old. I offer words as only proxy my clever stab at sheepish foxery. To sleep in rest without death’s grip in to eternity each does slip. To ride with God across the sky to have forgotten when or even why. Believing men shall never die.