Tinctured with the gusts of demoralizing Canary introjection

Heard you came in place of your loved crisis.
Are we saving each other or haunting one another?
There is a time for godly crepitation along the sands,
sand lost in journals not meant for anyone’s eyes,
but sovereign as the establishing literature of a country.
There were the words of the working class shaking on.

Love-tank spiders on the grieving inordinacy of toxic plying
gum grass like telephone pole weddings striking a target
hole in our rehearsal dinner, moles in vows, safe in NYC –
from the ashes and turbinate artificial units made from cloud tissue,
there we do not dare to give in, like a razor pale-tipped Canary
tossed in the milking pool of seeds and wheat-like brows downing.
You did not have to give up musical theatre for pageful unknowns.
Be forever ready to put yourself first; remark where I see your stun’sl.