River’s heart to ramble, bumbling, babbling and raging in search of greater bodies. The seas please don’t tease with idol traffic. For potency is Prince and perish is for the wanton. Wisdom’s course from which there shall not be divorce nor recourse to horse the bridle’s tightened. Leave this prodigal be in the pig pods and familiar nods of those sodden with burden’s angry passing. To lasso wandering stars using Mars as slingshot we rocket to a pocket of souls bound for the poles of quantum intervention. All roads lead to the Will of Him who sent them, bound by convergence of impartiality.

Whisper not but yell of mystery’s understanding that we may find hope in the midst of slavery to centripetal commitment. Crushed by gravity’s unbearable breast nearly incapable to open pupil to pause this portion of Pauper’s parade. To serenade the Queen of loves so bright into depth of night and shallow morn, where dawn yawns to fealty’s fawn and sky seeks flight’s captivity. Frozen in hours while moments whiz by playing with our taffyed hearts. Winter’s race to face the winds of time’s quest to end all reason. When season comes for corn or plums there’s no sense to be so dense in planting.

Does He call or invite to wondrous ball where halls all are ivory and gold nothing so bold as an answer in whit to whence we remit our regret. Forgetting the promise of hope we look to the farm’s purpled cloud hanging so proudly displayed for all that’s been made providing some shade for dandy and daughter. At hip’s launching the saddle skips beats to the chomping bit sitting sideways on cupid’s incisor. The bite of great Love send forth dove to find proof of flood’s ebbing tide as bride to my joyous projection. Reflect if we must on watercolor or bust indecent we trust as halls to our fancy have reasoned.

Relief said the Brine throat blessed with wine pressed from the grapes of God’s Patience. Insatiable it seems with glory colored dreams and steam’s misty magic on cotton. Forgotten from whence and from what sense I gathered the hill of beans for which we fight. Not wanting right but for Wrong’s loss. We toss those ill fated dice upon marbled madness hoping upon probability’s kindness and the gentleness of random fate’s provision. I am not wed to this insanity of anticipation based on nightmarish reasoning, flavored by experiential seasoning of men who’ve not escape pubescent poverty. Depth is the sound by fathom or pound for which men seek the landing within pastures of promised green hollow.