As the wind tries to whistle against its own desire to form, we will always see the ocean in the morning as the sun decides to.
As turning the turns that turn and return only to repeat and rinse and hit the street yet again. Missing the target and break a sweat. Hate the masterbate and call me sweet.
The foam of the tree floats when there are enough people to gather in the nodes of a knot that has so little intricacies that Alexander has no dagger left to stab at the crux. At the heart of the issue, this porm has no sense but only what comes out of my pockets when I decide to turn myself upside-down.
Now let`s continue forward.
The sun`s settling down to die and to be forgotten for a day. The rats come out to play. Blind mice, let`s say.
Hopefully, the city sweeps its own sweet victory forward and then so the city-zens can play the movie in reverse. Only in the end do we have to redo everything undone in the light. Like the way rats like to love their bodies and their blood. The blood that`s engorged with more and more fire that burns through the veins of their youth. So, the blind mice (`cuz I forgot to keep my imagery straight).
The foam of the sea, the foam of the tree of people. The foam of the fire that rises to the sun. The fire (I like the fire imagery). The water that`s in the veins of the trees, in the mice that move not knowing where they are going. The fire. The terror of the morning. THe blind mice are just mice but now, in the light, they are now blind mice.
The rats (I mean, the blind mice) can`t shake off the memories of the elephants as they shiver throughout the night since their coats are not well-adapted to this wind. The elephant is rumbling and rolling through the city as the mice try to stand erect. As enough memories are knwon by heart, the fear that encaves the elephants in a state where the walls of their rationality rub the atriums of the subconscience as palpitations blow out more and more foam from the forever that foments. We only thought the forever would serve its purpose. (I`ve erred. The foam is memory but I used it to signify life. Or maybe the foam is suppose to signify something that is untouchable to human interactions `cuz to interact with the foam would destroy it. I think I`ll do something about that notion in this poem. Sometime soon, I think.)
The rats don`t touch the foam. They just try to whistle their way into the foam`s caverns.