grootvader

Brown eyes, Blue eyes, Green one's too. The too is for also, and you are certainly included. All in one shuffle, the walking path is corroded. No longer is the summit in view. Clouds shift, rain falls, plans change. This open air tastes stale. The sheep have wandered further than the reaches of any Sheppard or rapist. To come back is to reach the summit. Were to turn around? Where to park? Where to stop searching? Answers fallow in suit with questions, sentences combine to make paragraphs. Paragraphs flow to the drain. Examination is used to discover, upon this we are clogged. Consume, Digest, Clog. The flush is for the flow of continuance. Our sensory/social perspective and influence is under constant attack, this is our body wars. Bombardment like the bombing of London. The children have left and the parents are dead. This promotion is for the both of us. But mostly for your father. Boy is he proud of his force fed graduate. Raised on the grass of society. Clock in Punch out. Another crowded food court falls victim. The Uzi has a Bachelors Degree, and loves the music of the Eagles. Now no more and neither is Stacy. It took one stray bullet and now, two orphans. One can sing the other is a mute. Raised on grief and habitual hugs. Foster and leave. Adopted for the absence of children, a dream never to be lived, now a facade of children waiting to run. But to where? The summit is clouded. What wind must we create to actualize and clear our summits? The answer is not clearly defined nor should it be. This interstate is forever ours, the most important is not to get lost. Stray as you must but arm your self. Knowledge, patience, and music. The up most essentials for any straying tour. Duty if we must but only through obligation. The obligation to obscurity soon to be mainstream. Awake to occupy; the mind, heart,and lies. Shuffling to play bridge with tarot cards. Dearest Kate, I am writing you because Stacy is dead, and it is time we reconnect. We used to pray that we would never meet. Remembrance of us will for ever be happy, brushing your hair as you sat beneath me, only once did every strand align, and that night grandfather died. We should have never met, nor loved. You make me ashamed and for this I love you more. Do not call, do not write, the key is under the front mat. Please, let yourself out.