Like the Carmenere they grow... a cultivate of disquisition. Scornful of the tempest; a rising illuminati.
Inamorata, you have left a living draught, overlaying the grasses and the sweet plums… all the unfinished projects: An époque killing.
Appointing times for self-reflection, sublime, but my lungs have turned to callow... from kissing foibles, seducing sage advice… a Muslim prayer.
Eidolon eyes tantalize, relics murmur… alas, disagreement is not disloyalty, sweet child…
Genuflection. A stranger or an unresolved soul? Conceived in passion or lust?
A trumpeting to Metatron -- and to The Rest-- a heavenly mishmash of the Wakeful Ones…
Did you see them?
K.P.
