Dear David,
I write, in freedom’s flight, a land, a station, I thrice hold tell, and I, a woman, am I a child to the bell? That no home, in escape, how a tear, I can dwell, and write willing in freedom, is it an angel, in my flight, in hands, sworn, to a permission landing a thorn hands bitten chime, to lift crop life, to others’ their dwellings, or dwelling others flame, cemented wounds held chains time? How I do, how I am, how my voice, I am not a condescending crime, a tilt, a suffering chime, in a death chains crime, to tilt passages woven despair, woven treated grain, their temperance wine, a sip, to a soul, their knowings and wisdoms in ignorance their own worth to their table, never seen, yet my name, how loft they know, how eager they throw, a mission to their slime. How they wipe, their lips, with filth, their meals, served eagerly served on hands, woven, with maids, that kisses, their slimey mitts, with woven pits, rinsed from their own disworth, and then the crime, a child, with chimes, they misery seek, to wisdom hips, late becoming to their worthy trophies, standing, a flame, home, to name, yet eager loft, how homeless I do stand, and what theft, a beast left unattended, sands all the times hone quick, and love, how I do stand, yet, there are traces, of condescending, death to it’s wick. It will take time, the freedom, I stand here, the written word to clear, how novel, how ripe the feast, how caring hands, do slither around their greed, my form, my tilted hone, to never caring ask an opinion bent together, in guiding hands, to their greed, lit mercy, and who am I, but a pill, to chime, to always, never gaze with crafty greedy palms, one wisdom, a wick so noble, so quick, to take wisdom and knowledge, their sealing palms, stolen to maids, with focused intent, to a dwelling not theirs but pushing to glare, how stolen children, do weep, it seems, clearing, this loft, the memory tied, to their pushy needs, and their stolen greeds, will take time, in suffering grain. Is it an eagle, to tilt the paradise, my claim, to the withered blackened book, my stain, a noble girl, with hooks her hair, so grilled in freedom speak, that always open the air tilt show, to unleash the breath, to a dwelling, butchered to a country fought even, with staring souls, and opinions, and leashes their breaths, to a dwelling not mine, to angry demons lofting prying opinions to share, butchering the dwelling not mine, to equality, in spoken words, and lofty chokes, to spits and looms and wombs, that pry contempt to their rooms, with shying stains, and crying contempts, to never hold the piece of land, a name in freedom, yet what corners law, I do contempt, that I held death in so disarrear, that nothing pardoned, but wisdom free, and knowledge what is that, but held to a coin, and a man of contempt, his profession, all coined, to guidance, yet nothing garnered, but coin wept laugh, and his mission to steal, yet guidance, what care, but a shaft? How a poised position, in law so free, would find the law, bent to the coin, with a tea, and stolen hands, where sharpened glory, make, I rewind the past, and the garnered point, I steal, to an angel with I, to an old loom, I do shake? I request, in kind aperture, a kindred spirit flowing greet, and knowing freedom, I know the word, is not mine, but others the challenge the dwelling flowing sanity, never gained, in the butchered form, to a dwelling, flight, I sowed in youth, but a country, that could never honour the soul, the sharpened obstacles, in flight youth to freedom of my form, to soar, and fly, and butcher all honour, to the chains the womb and seed, in birth, to names, that I never knew, to shy, in knowledge or wisdom sane, a flame, to guide, with freedom, but just a tailor one wick, one explanation, on direction, to form, I never found, to never guess, or guise, to never wicken or quicken what direction, to comfort, or gain, or comforts lost, to freedom, I can never claim.
I stand in a shroud, the dwelling same, yet pedestals, I do name, the eagle blackened to an uprising flame, or is it two torched findings, to two drills theft, I stand alone, on a pedestal two candles, flames quicken and my step, is it a word, in chilling cries, my loneliness taken, the word note to a hurt grain, that I cannot shame, to read from passages, a state flown apathy, a liquor to find cheap education, knowing nothing, and a claim, my own, woven discord and an apple of flying mercy, to never I, but greetings flappings, that I speak, I write freely, that nothing of I, do I tweak, in logic name, or fame, or knowings, or wisdoms, anything but just an angel peeking peering loft, in instructions, to the womb lit anger gem loft, and severing all freedoms, I do station, death, can I speak soft? To council wise, to the sight, I do reset, just I, the eyes straight forward, do not peek peer, the direction council soft, or guiding flames, to others in shame, just stare forward, and speak, from the direction, the guiding direction flame, without words, and gaze at I, gaze at I, no note, to the flame, no guidance, but death and my flame.
And gaze, and gaze into the pedestal, and then you see, you see my sharing contribution woe, to this country and it’s toe, and all dwellings keep, and all beings, in death I shall weep. And stare, and stare, into a void, where nothing, but I, I in a trance, to direction, one, an death, the guiding flame, I shall stare, I shall stare, in the sight, with nothing directed and nothing guided, just empty soulless eyes, where guidance was never, and the wick, can I find it quick, to words, I cannot say, to words I cannot form, to words, I cannot prepare, and a candle, can I crutch light move, my own words, to groove, or just stare in death, the last move quiver take, an angel to stare, to glare, to maim the eyes with fame, yet I what claim, I alone stand, in a room with nothing touched pristine claims make, just the formless altar, that I quake, I make, my own form slaughtered wear, and take me, all, an angel, why glare, I speak with freedom, where death my wick, yet others quick, in judgement find, do find my judgement in stone, a friend, a comfort, in loft love greet pair, not in council or judgement glare, and find the fold, a friend where are thou? And the angel no tears but mercy, what is loft, or what is soft, what folden thee, are those tears thee, or thou, or where is the light, the shroud in comfort take, or footing stone, to the formless capture, I in stone, and what gazen loft do you wish, but the dwelling empty, in home return, and nothing I but all butchered or left dwelling shed, to one idle comment, and then tone to make, that not eternity, I shall weep, the formless capture, the gaze so strong, how I am will-less across the gaze strength, and what is felt, but nothing weak, just nothing ever tweak, to suffering quick, and what direction thee, in light so fair? A movement, to death, or all threat pair, or pairing loft, freedom soft, where is love? Control a vehicle hindered glove, or guidance one mark, the territory park, a slither form to find me there, yet nothing wise or nothing known, or nothing found but stripped to the bone, and nothing left, but a pedestal and garment and two flames, can you not see, who I am? A child in the winds, and caring loft, to nothing, sinned, or nothing caring soft, but others their hurt and grain, I can never leave, a dwelling slighted mission, the chains, the dwelling form give?
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