A thousand cusps sacred lit hands of Autumn riddled patronizing, crying myth

dealing with a lifetime of songs
stirred obsequious souls but spaced of envy
for a fitted marksman in rooms for small tailorsmith doctors, everything sails
playing with the patronage of years of bathing salt rain-ways
here we all lose the rhythm of crystal salt ravens, docked mornings
pleas follow me near to the time prank of salacious salvation
like a cooking mother tied to an oblique top for furneaux abject songs
Everything stalls
there we were ticking sailboats on wings long since clipped
we were wings that do not believe in an [established creator],
but instead of a murky, but still small voice as some aspects
of [all religion] caught one aspect or another, just wisdom literature,
no demarcated willingness to believe in this or that vision,
prophecy is an idle and bad teaching conduit, as you do not know
if you there until you there, you had no training for that vision [or known to be]
chained songstress like ramified locking grace with candles that last for days
lasting for eons like a temple of grace on the surface of the moon; one for every geocentric orbit
Everything stalls; turning off the music now
neither will we bother that Guy picking at airplane broken guitar strings, all out of tune,,,,,,,
scaling stratosphere cliffs of tined rainwater for the blessed memory
of signifying the awful / Everything stalls
when all women are free from the gross stature of men, in realization of their power
peace on Earth will be easy to capture like a powerful club, report to me in twenty years,
what is the matter with the children, hands blown off trying to stop an explosion
that would have rocked several blocks of home landings, to become witnesses for the state