The last time we met, I mean I and the dying time was when the railing teeth of the rails were grinding was five decades ago. Or was it five years ago? Wait, it seems am on the potion of delusion.
It seems nothing really has changed. The fatal scare in her left dimple is still igniting. Time does really change, but the scaried trauma still streches out.
Was it that I did not fathom the circums of the tiding tampings?
Ah, or was it that the baiting hook really never had a bait?
With the phasing out shades of the walking moon, I still reckon the beams of anxiety moving through her veins in the noonings.
I never prayed when the mourners spoke in the dirgical leaks. Was it not the trials of the wheelsome grave looters?
Pause, wait, slow, I mean in silence lets ride on in this dream of my fantasies.