Clang the door handle steels
an embrace of welcome to navy help, watering a soul with cleansing, but dilute with aid, this clear tonic to cancer. Is there anything at all that can make you better that we have not placed, secured, chilled - the halls - white the night dares sound to pierce. But navy help comes, in form of dispensary, but still pills fly across to water to vital forms of measure, pressure to bear on plain bodies. The white knocks, guarding the door, the illness retreats as daily he trumps the castle, knowing the counts, the bloody remains of fights gone by. And so as white knights, briefing the king, or those injured in battle, for fluids, for a short stay of calm before sabers peel open guts, jousting for rights to heal. Darker the navy approaches, warning of pills taken or not - the orders of the night - vital for blood, fortification, manning turrets, blazing in battle, so it would seem to prevent. And the smile, the disposition does prevent or add to confidence of position, of strategic advantage - of mind over sterile, chill, sensible beds waiting for healing. They the navy, seeing to calls, to dozens, to fluid calmly taken or fed or otherwise unknown, to ask the recipe is to want more than a source of clear brooks, rivers. Of white, solemn is the brook as it lives and fights for rights to castles, to moats and bridges and whoever could say it or you are better or will take the castle. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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