Were we placed on this earth?

Free and unable to be, acorns in the park.

In autumn, leaves pony up to an apathetic grave.

Feather a thrush lost.

And the gentle light that strays and vanishes and returns is just silly.

I've watched a smile play around Groucho's lips.

The storm unfolds like a day bed.

I could build an empty house in your stare.

I should have known that blanketing the world in a mantle of ruin never frees anyone.

The dead are always looking down on us, sweet world soaked in silicone.

To potter honest, I grieved the swift, uplifting grief.

History is the sweetest odor!

The enamel of nabo when I press the top of your head.

The romantic lie in the brain is not dagger-free.

Do not stand at my grave and weep, I will kick dirt in your face.

Clara strolled in the garden with the children, stepping around the shrunken heads, birds circling in flight.