Base can enter my spirit voice
to come out from the feet of my legs.
My artillery may sloop and head may die.
The world is about to kill myself,
It has already crown myself.
A range that amour gurgling spizzle
and wet an aura of ridding suns.
Why not meditate, who measures fruit
of our quad,
and why not it an unnecessary good?
Or who tend for tepid things.
The spirit is dead
and the sun is lumped.
Touch of the universe from ultimate
fusion, bearing the blood who swears,
and fears that drops from the mouth..
The baling eye that see darkness in the
coast of the house of sight.
Raptors faith of tomorrow’s morrow
I need thermometer,
I want to know the temp of mars,
Earth and Jupiter must know.
Do you mars, still breath in blood?
For the stars counted, where two million
Copyright © Ebi ROBERT