And though his bones they have bled into oat, ash & dust, his stories, quite blahsensical, they shall ever never rust. Whilst parliamentary principles perabulated in his head, he laid upon his pillow, solving problematic proverbs in his bed. Swashbuckling tales wrapped in a small trim blue skirt as she holds a ‘drink me’ bottle beginning…
“Sometimes I stand in one place,
but I am not there
In this place,
you do not know me. I stand heart swelling between my pores
this scared crows beak through atmospheric places fighting for MORE!
Ruin and rapture, left to swim amongst the stars I soar.”