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He may not sitting, swaying as trees to grass.
The nonsensical in us says it's hardcover to make anything more of it than we can see, hiding there in the wood, dark but indoors, we all can see what tempts us. Baldacci brings real life to the Doll House - the fresh flowers that fill an end to stores. It's nothing to do with you or me, or random talk, and then you can see me just standing there like a pro - giving forth from where I stand, a draft, a pen that imbibes culture - the standard bearer of life that can take a bit of prose and republish as neatly as stacked magazines. If you could just ask a question - relevant to no - we could justify how cold we are - chilled as Chesney is, in hat - decorated with nonchalance that makes us all want to drink this collection of refreshment, an enthusiast making it all the harder to find one's way in life. © 2015 Larry Ingram
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Take time to sit, to grab the mag -
with brown boots, stalling across wading magazines, they mumble prophetic, I'm going to bust up Atlanta, if not Chicago - to wait longer than offending curious books, taken longer to mature than cookies. I was talking about the next person, that struggle, though laughing, mocking at rest, ready for the next publisher to meander by. The built ins are ready for drilling, a garish if not pretentious model for critiquing all of us. At about that time it moved, skating across Easton, scheduled never picked up - neither were the times for sitting, posing as though interested in the price of coffee or pornography that will never be read. Though attractive, never fulfilled. Peace, love and the next insurgent. |
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