Counted in the extreme thought of bi-rated reprisal and condemned in its mercy

mercy for the dilapidated saints in the cross-rows of windswept intuition,
devotion, like a cowering excuse, for regal band camps and informed discretion
like the festering heat of demarcated swallow-throats, pealing the parched April noon.
Founders portrayed like numb puppets. Countered in the forgetfulness. Lost esteem.
Haley needs a garden with the sweet dove mountain of her simmering voice.
There is growth there, in the fountain of appeasement. Where bristle shadows
hold only a noon card in the stakes of formidable consequence. Scattered, imbued,
fought for all we believe in, so true to the meaning of the short field heart,
there are no forgotten-angel forged memories in the vacuum of early morning saints.
They are mystified and broken and all appealing inquiries start with the mother of
sterilization towards the winter abasement like curls under an iron and steeples
under founding regret. Where, shall we overthrow the statues of morning? Where,
shall we drop curtains on the dominant phrase? Like a dust mite in the refrigerator.
We have seen glorious ends to a defeated, suspended, inoculated portend of freedom.
It is already written, God said, with now the morning stature. Now the solidified eclipse
into the dowry painted suburbs like stolen grateful ejected hearts of farewell tributes.

early vacuum saints steal the fauna of dispersion like paperweights in the camping ground,
solidified by each other, by our passing said acquaintance, like downy farms in the spinning
pool of a lifetime of the regime. “Do not take this for certain. I have not seen a cure,” God states,
as He sees over the beguiled saints of ashtrays and willowed curtains, where no moon
has come to forget them. No judgment for the star insiders, that could not forget their names,
and were not present for the ice-slander of morning suns. “I have come for you, dear adequate.
I have come like the everlasting on your way to central defeat. I will lift you and arm you,
like you were my neighbor and all that matters; the time we spent together, talking about
ashtrays and mother suns. I am here for you, seasoned waitress, so young to the invaluable,
and resting so assured to the outcome of resistance.” Where will we go, asked the farmer
on high. No magician can count the wealth you see of a daily trigger-bank of watered
freeways and ashtrays and the gully of old-art-decision. Do not count me. I am proverbial
and not to be a part of this continuous parched wave of defeat. “I did not deplore the star-mapped
waitress, nor did I count you among the journey of sailing defeat, but I thought it wiser
to let you know there will be an entry in my journey, a tiny map, that leads you away
from uncertainty and guilt. That leads you away from criminal endeavors in the contract
of My heart and the solstice of my dreams.” Have we neither tempered certainty of a pathway
to My heart than a whimsical dream? Are not the patterns enabled? And the foresight, untimbered?