Ask me not to stray the service,
the line for the dark, ground wares - to transpose one from free to paid subscription is, well, quite the task for makers of traipsing and such, as has been remarked for pastry's end. Nor has it been said that a tankard of brown will float a number of seats in retrospect, in light of dark reprimand of such privileged few, or as has commonly been spoken of by the land of news. We'll keep it here, now, for plentiful skies will keep dark stains appearing here, there the freedom dies, it microbes into those unwashed, the tides of skirts without paths, tidal red, the skirmish dies here, to see no more of this. Cream in it - yes - but nowhere to see how it garners fans of filtering processes so tidy as to remake one into a skeleton of self - made to be remarkable and daft all the same to management, sadly into the sun it melts. Breezily the line forms, into parking lines we meet and accost, civilized are we not to see a case of brazen stepping over hundreds of cups, sadly they know not what brew or from which earthy body it came, up from dust. Bread, yes. But I'll have the burned stuff, the one from England that sails past bright waves, blue skies, to patterns of Caledonia, dancing past new members, or old who notice the filters gone, worn as only paper can make us slice it so it's free and drinkable. © 2015 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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December 2018
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