Dear David,
How looms, the carpenter, the woven tapestry, in quick repair, the creaky panels, the window pains, the quickened beat, that I hear, and dwell, alone, to the beaten mark?
And sands, what hands, my own dwelling, to my own misery, the creaky furniture, I hold, to my own aperature in chains clear?
That knowing worth, then give me a lesson guidance flame, is it a piece of clay, a brick in an archtecture guidance know, to my own soul, freedom and build alone speak?
How can freedom loft, a pidgeon a twig, barely bent to know, when chains around my carcass, in birth, to the freedom, I wish, to a country, withered, in peace, to frosty eyes, and a spit my soul, to no dwelling my name, in birth to sow? And what loft, a table, can you sign my name, what worth, I, to the bill set know? Or a smudge my soul, to a harkened beat, a dead child, to the freedom, that always speaks, to a country chains, to a child each dwelling always theirs frown tell, and then, the bell, to a room, a shelter, where moon’s tie, where moon’s lie, and others freedoms’ their lines joining the sun peak? In travelling in safety fame, yet I, how the spit, I swallow, to a skull, beaten on the crow’s path, to a word, my soul, the grain, to a carpenter’s sniff, is it a guiding flame, yours to a beak, or a sniff to tweak, a loom, in paradise, to a rock, and ring, and a claim, in guidance claim show?
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