The faulty breath of life flows through; passions of illusion welcome the misfits of wander. Take my hand, I found you in the salt mines of sallow, breathe for me and we will be less hollow.
Do you depart my love? Have you found your home of homelessness? Beautiful shacks arose and clothe us, there are no mysteries here.
Fine tapestries of lament are amid the bedding. We lie and lie for comfort, falling deeper into the toils of warmth. I bid you farewell and good day, all the while spoiling in your fermented fruit.
We build a bowl or cherries, apples and peaches. Sometimes a lemon to get us through. Discovering the complexities of humor and jest, often crying at the promises to be our best.
You wither and I plant you, a dead seed of expectation. For I always loved the delusion, and hold you until your death.
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