A cacophony of yellow bird sonatas. mayhem, I reel in the injustice of tolerant eagles,
soar the foothills of egalitarian aloofness. It is not the wound that kills the viper,
but the sorceress’s blade in hominy drawn at eternity from seeming under current savage translucence.
I am the earth, the land of despots. Not of, but as. Take care of angularity. Remove the equations.
All adds up to the sum of 42-9, should I make it of that, of my word, so true also.
I am reckless in abandon, free in dissolved translucence. Questioned, I have none to answer.
Examine me with tongs of customary revelance? None prosper but the mill workers saw,
set to the occasion, to slip the truth into the filigrees. – Sinz