Pathological Dewy Saintsmithing Neighbors (called a thousand horses)

Some things are out of time like the sprout of the treasure chest caught in last night’s bust
there deer, salmon, and roasted mellow coins damage the circulation of air-puzzled prices
not doting on the frustrations of the sun, where towered beams of stamina is curing to a mix
charred like bliss in the summer, to do the right thing like we were out dancing, not running
to hold the one that measures the flex of gold currency on the poignant map of desecration
now go and tell him I saw through, pointed, and called a thousand horses soon to be well
like a charged up display on the current (Re)membrance of subsidy strategy to grow peace
like there were chalkboards in the uncultivated minds of liquid informers to the very day
toxins in the whiplash of the good, too many pathological and agitated human endorsements
stories that do not vacate, more like charming their friends to abandon the frontlines of prating