Thursday, March 18, 2010

Her kind is neat

Her kind is the fair love. Behovely as peat in the mudcracked road round the village. Bearing the feet of love's  tag, categorized by care mudtracks. The old accent beefing it up rounding the air. Pleasant as cynic her kind memorial makes no one come home. She's rough to her herring bone.

It's her kind smile that makes me come||||||||||||||Shift that tense paly get that thing going. No one needs a group to make it work. One is already a group packed jammed and hamstrung besides those fantasy voices busting your ear drums.




And then the sun ran over the room of the afternoon . No one heard it coming except the pale russet of riders backed by the rooms to their closet.